

































• • 

THE LAKE 


/ 




BY 

MARGARET ASHMUN 


Including Mother 
The Heart of Isabel Carleton 
Isabel Carleton at Home 
Isabel Carleton in the West 
Isabel Carleton’s Friends 
Isabel Carleton’s Year 
Marion Frear’s Summer 
Modern Short Stories 
Stephen’s Last Chance 
Support 

Topless Towers : A Romance of Morn- 
ingside Heights 








/ 

THE LAKE 


BY 

MARGARET ASHMUN / 

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il2eto gotfc 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1924 

All rights reserved 

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TZs 


Copyright, 1924, 

By MARGARET ASHMUN. 


Set up and electrotyped. 
Published September, 1924, 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



TO 

Marion May 


Call no man your father upon the earth: 
for one is your Father, which is in heaven. 

Matthew 23:9 


BOOK ONE 















































































































- 

f 





















































































































































THE LAKE 


CHAPTER I 

A mile and a half from the village the house was; 
and the village, in turn, was seven miles from town. A 
lane ran from the curve of the road to the side of the 
house, and around to the big ramshackle barns backed 
by a tamarack swamp. The house faced a little lake, 
toward which the low ground at the front descended. 
White paint had grown dingy with years, and the slatted 
green shutters showed dull and rusty. High above the 
roof rose a group of native hemlocks, which had stood 
there long before the house was built, when roving 
Indians kindled their camp fires from the pitchy twigs 
and cones. Beyond the hemlocks were woods, varying 
from the light green of butternut to the dark bluish 
green of spruce. 

Ten years ago, the traffic on country roads in the 
Middle West was not so notable as it is now. In a 
summer’s day, hardly a dozen vehicles passed over the 
road at the end of the lake. There were farm wagons 
drawn by slow plodding horses, and top-carriages drawn 
by single nags or trotting spans. At times an alien honk¬ 
ing and chugging warned of the laborious flight of an 
•automobile, plowing painfully through the sand. The 
white house seemed to claim a remoteness which was 
1 


2 


THE LAKE 


more than its due, because it faced the little lake, and 
took note of passing caravans only through side windows 
screened for six months of the year by snowball bushes 
and highbushed cranberries. 

* * * * * * * 

Hubert Faraday used to run down to the foot of the 
lane when he heard wheels grating over the pebbly 
place at the end of the lake. Standing on the lower 
board of the wide wagon gate, and clinging on with his 
bare toes, he could see the driver’s hat or the top of the 
carriage which was coming. Sometimes a farmer turned 
from the road into the shallow edge of the lake, and let 
his unchecked horses put their heads down and drink. 
Hubert could spy them through a gap in the birches, and 
he liked to see the eager way in which the horses plunged 
their noses into the water and held them there, sucking 
the cool cleanness through their necks. Sometimes they 
drank so long that the farmer grew impatient, and 
spatted the lines on the horses’ flanks, or called out with 
uncouth vituperation. Then the horses would lift their 
dribbling mouths, and shake their heads in the heavy 
collars, and reluctantly bend their strength to pulling the 
wagon through the sand and pebbles beneath the water. 
Hubert did not like to hear the creak of the whiffle-trees 
and the screech of the wheels. He was too far away to 
hear the labored breathing of the horses, but he knew 
how it sounded; he had been with his father when Wil¬ 
lard Faraday had driven Whitey and Jack through the 
little arc of the shore, and he had held to the wagon seat 
in misery when the horses had been harried from their 
draught, and hustled up the bank with whip-crackings 
and sputtering oaths. It was worse when Willard Fara- 


THE LAKE 


3 


day was in one of his fits of anger; for then the whip 
came down on the horses’ backs, and they snorted with 
exertion and pain. Hubert bit his lips then, to keep from 
crying out, and he thought of fierce reproaches which he 
would like to hurl at his father if he dared. 

******* 

Hubert was twelve now, a square-framed, brown-faced 
little boy, with blue-grey eyes, too often downcast, and 
a country lad’s allowance of freckles. Hubert was not 
like his mother, who had black hair and a smooth white 
face; nor yet, it seemed, like his father,, who was dark, 
too, but thin-featured and spare. 

Willard Faraday was a kind man enough, if he had 
not been subject to periods of melancholy or emotional 
irritation. In the main, he was good to Hubert. He 
would speak to him in a friendly way, and would buy 
him good clothes, and bring home little treats for him 
from town. But there were times when he would scowl 
at the boy, or push him aside and pretend not to see him. 
At these same times he would speak in loud passionate 
tones to Hubert’s mother. 

Averil Faraday was a quiet woman, who would have 
been thought beautiful in a different environment. The 
country people did not like her black hair, which she 
wore braided and wound about her head, coronetwise; 
nor her deep-set eyes, which seemed to them too know¬ 
ing; nor her white skin, which kept its smoothness in 
the heat of summer and the cold of winter. She was 
a country woman, like any other housewife in the dis¬ 
trict; but somehow there was a difference. The mother 
who, back in New York State, had called her little girl 
Averil had made an unconscious blunder. There was 


4 


THE LAKE 


nothing of the freshness of April about Averil Faraday; 
she should have been called Octavia, if it is true that 
that name suggests a dark and somber quiescence. 

The situation of the farm was not a cheerful one for 
a woman, though its air of seclusion was produced 
chiefly by its facing away from the road and toward 
the lake, and by its background of tall hemlocks and 
shadowed grove. Any woman might feel that she could 
do with a more neighbourly place to live, thought the 
women who drove by on their way to the village or the 
town, from their own houses, set out flat in the fields, 
with rows of Lombardy poplars along the road in front. 
Most of the women drove by. Not many of them 
stopped to visit with Averil Faraday. 

Neighbours were not lacking, though none lived actu¬ 
ally near. Three-quarters of a mile away, toward the 
old Indian Trail bridge, were the Hunts—Libbie and 
her two children, and her husband Benjamin, when he 
chose to be there. Beyond the bridge lived Alexander 
McLean, a bachelor and an intimate friend of the Fara¬ 
days. Alexander, a broad-shouldered fellow of Scot¬ 
tish descent, had thick light brown hair with a tinge of 
the sandy in it, and eyes that were either blue or grey. 
Most people did not notice that his eyes could be hard 
or sad or restless, because he was always laughing. Peo¬ 
ple laughed with him, and did not look at his eyes. 

******* 

One Saturday morning in June, Hubert had a birth¬ 
day. He was twelve. 

“You’ll have to grow faster,” said his mother with a 
smile, as she gave him his present. It was a base-ball 
mitt, which he had long coveted. His father’s present 


THE LAKE 


5 


had been a silver dollar. Hubert held it in his hand as 
he took the base-ball mitt. He did not like to be told 
that he was too small for his age, but he could not feel 
hurt at what his mother said, because underneath there 
was always something wistful which he felt, but was 
too ignorant to define. “You’ll have to hurry up and 
get a start,” she repeated. 

“I know it!” he said, gulping. “Don’t I eat enough?” 

“Oh, yes, you eat enough.” Averil was standing in 
the doorway, looking out at the lake. She wore a pink- 
checked gingham dress, open at the neck. Hubert, 
glancing up at her, perceived vaguely that she did not 
look old; even that she looked surprisingly young. 
One’s mother was supposed to be old. He could not 
bother to think about the problem. “I think that when 
you do start to grow, you’ll be a big man, Bertie,” she 
said. 

Bertie! Hubert detested the name. At school the 
other boys called out to him on the sly, “Bertie, Bertie, 
fat and dirty.” 

He knew that he was neither fat nor dirty, and that 
the boys had just put the words together because they 
“went”; but he hated the name no less. He retaliated 
as best he could with “Howard, Howard, he’s a cow¬ 
ard,” and “Billy, Billy, ain’t he silly?” But his efforts 
did not seem to carry the significance of the rhyme which 
was directed at him. 

“I don’t like to be called Bertie,” he had said once or 
twice of late, to his mother. 

“Why?” she had asked. 

“I don’t know,” he had replied evasively. This morn¬ 
ing he did not feel that he could protest, because his 
mother had been so nice about giving him the present; 


6 


THE LAKE 


and she was going to make cocoanut pie for dinner, espe¬ 
cially for him. Besides, school would soon be out, and 
he was not likely to be badgered much by the other boys 
till fall. He shifted the dollar in his sweaty hand, and 
looked out across the lake as his mother was doing. 

There had been rain the night before, and the air was 
humid; but the wind was cool. The leaves, turning up 
their edges, shone like glass. The house faced the west, 
and the sun was not yet high; so that the long shadows 
of the grove lay on the surface of the lake, richly blue, 
with tiny fluted ripples, flecked with white. Along the 
edge grew purple irises, and in the yard were loose- 
limbed acacias, heavy with their scented white racemes. 
They made a kind of frame for the blueness of the lake 
and the sky. 

“What a lovely morning,” said Mrs. Faraday. She 
sighed. “I must wash my dishes.” 

“Come out on the lake a little while, ma,” begged 
Hubert. 

“No, I must wash my dishes,” his mother answered. 

“Why?” queried Hubert, frowning. Dishes seemed to 
him of infinitesimal importance. It was a glorious morn¬ 
ing to go on the lake. 

Averil Faraday glanced down at him, a flicker of a 
smile on her lips. “I suppose because I’m a woman,” she 
said. “Don’t women always wash their dishes, even if 
they want to go on the lake?” 

“I s’pose they do,” muttered Hubert. Hidden in his 
mother’s tone was something which made him feel un¬ 
comfortable. 

“And if they do go on the lake when they ought to 
be washing their dishes—they’re sorry,” she said; 
“they’re sorry.” She was not smiling now. There was 


THE LAKE 


7 


a pause. Presently she turned back through the entry¬ 
way, to the dining-room at the back of the upright part 
of the house. “Put your presents away, dear, and go 
and weed a little in the lettuce bed.” She spoke briskly, 
as if to put out of their minds what she had said. “The 
rain will bring up the weeds by the million.” 

“Can I take off my shoes ’n’ stockings?” asked 
Hubert eagerly. 

“Why, I don’t care. It doesn’t hurt,” she answered. 
“You’re getting to be a pretty big boy to go barefooted— 
but I guess it’s all right when you’re around the place.” 

“I thought you said I wasn’t very big,” returned Hu¬ 
bert slyly, looking over his shoulder. He had sat down 
on the step of the dining-room door, to unfasten his 
shoes. 

“Well, maybe I meant you’re to old to go barefooted.” 

“I wish I’d never get too old for that.” 

The boy was peeling off his long ribbed black stock¬ 
ings. He looked down at his white legs. “I guess I’ll 
put on my overalls,” he said. So much white leg showing 
seemed somehow indecent. When he got them good and 
brown- “But how’ll I get ’em brown if I wear over¬ 

alls?” he mumbled. “Guess I’ll wear ’em to-day, any¬ 
how.” He went upstairs and changed, and then ran out 
into the garden, along the path bordered with currant 
bushes, and rhubarb flaunting huge crumpled leaves on 
rose-coloured stalks. 

The lettuce was thickly grown along the rows, and 
weeds had made good progress between. Hubert let his 
toes dig down into the damp earth, still pleasantly cool 
after the rain. He tugged away at the weeds. He was 
not thinking of much; or rather his mind was a confusion 
of what he would do with the silver dollar, and how 



8 


THE LAKE 


he wished his mother would call him Bert, as his father 
did, and what there was to be for dinner. Lower down, 
there were vague motions of mind—how nice his mother 
had looked in the pink dress, and how good his father 
had been lately, and whether Uncle Alec (Mr. Alexan¬ 
der McLean) would give him anything for his birthday. 
Sometimes he did, and sometimes he didn’t. That was 
the queer thing about it. When he did, it was something 
splendid, that almost made you hold your breath. 

For what seemed to Hubert a long time, he kept on 
weeding the lettuce, stopping now and then to look 
around. The place was silent, except for the twittering 
of birds and the cackling of hens. Willard Faraday was 
down in the last of his fields, on the other side of the 
road, mending fences. A faint tapping of a hammer gave 
a hint of his existence. Hubert was too far away from 
the house to catch the sound of his mother’s work; she 
was always quiet at her tasks. 

The boy came to the end of a row, and stood up to 
ease his back. The silence was broken by a step on 
the pebbly place where the road ran along the end of 
the lake. It was not the noise of a team. Hubert craned 
his neck, to look past the snowball bushes and apple 
trees. He saw a man’s hat of soft grey felt, moving be¬ 
hind the shrubbery. His heart leaped. Uncle Alec! 
“Bet you he’s bringing a present.” 

He stood staring, speculating. His first impulse was 
to run to the house, to see what Mr. McLean had 
brought; but he thought better of that. It might look 
as if he expected something. And then, too, his mother 
had given him quite clearly to understand that one must 
not burst in suddenly and unasked when people were 
calling—even friends like Uncle Alec. She had been 


THE LAKE 


9 


cross with him at times, when he had not waited to be 
called. So he crouched at the lettuce rows again. He 
heard the sound of footsteps, and then they died away on 
the grass. 

Nobody called him, and after a while he saw Uncle 
Alec going away again. He walked slowly, with his 
head down, as if he were thinking. “I got to have a 
drink of water/' said Bert, aloud. He took off his hat, to 
let the wind blow across his forehead. He went up the 
walk quietly, in his bare feet. They made no sound on 
the step. He halted in the flood of sunshine just beyond 
the trellised rambler rose. The screen door had been 
left wide open, flung back against the trellis by an un¬ 
heeding hand. Averil Faraday was lying half across the 
table with the blue-checked cloth. Her arms were 
stretched out, and her fingers were clenched so hard 
that her hands seemed stiff, like wood. Her face was 
hidden on her arms, and only her black braids showed, 
and the white skin at the back of her neck, above the 
collar of her gingham dress. She was almost still, but a 
faint shivering ran through her body. 

Bert stood motionless. At first he was going to run to 
her, and ask what was the matter. But already he had 
learned not to give rein to his impulses, where his mother 
was concerned. He stood staring, and shuffling sound¬ 
lessly, but his mother did not move nor look up. He 
turned and went down the steps, and out into the garden 
again. He forgot about the drink of water for a while. 
Then he thought of it, and went back. This time he 
went in through the shed, and pumped a pailful of 
water very loudly before he ventured into the summer 
kitchen for a cup. He liked a glass from the dining¬ 
room cupboard, but he decided that a cup would do. 


10 THE LAKE 

When he took it back, his mother came to the dining¬ 
room door. “Well, Bertie,” she said cheerfully, “how 
did you get along with the weeding?” She was smiling 
now, though Bert thought that she looked queer. 

“Pretty good,” he said. “Uncle Alec was here, wasn t 
he? I saw him.” 

“Yes. And what do you think?” Mrs. Faraday had a 
sprightly air. “He brought a present for you. That s 
why he didn't stay. He thought it would be more of a 
surprise if he didn’t give it to you himself.” 

“What is it?” The boy was all agog with eagerness. 

“It’s here—a package. I haven’t opened it, of course.” 

The boy took the parcel in his hands. It was in the 
shape of two boxes, tied together under a wrapping paper. 
He pulled at the string, broke it, and tore off the wrap¬ 
pings. Sure enough, here were two boxes, one long, and 
one square. Neither was very large. “Oh, what do you 
s’pose it is?” he mumbled, as he tried awkwardly to open 
the smaller box. His mother took the other one from 
him, so that he might open the smaller first. The cover 
came off—and there, on blue cotton, lay a silver watch. 
Its white face stared up familiarly, and the little black 
second-hand was going round and round in a hurry, with 
a friendly tick. “Oh, oh!” Hubert was too much de¬ 
lighted to speak. “A watch, a watch, a watch,” he cried 
at last. He took it up in his fingers, and felt its smooth 
rim, and the pure glass of the crystal. It was a much 
finer watch than he knew. It was the sort of silver 
watch that a man would buy who wanted to get the most 
perfect gold, but did not dare. “It’s a cracker-jack, ain’t 
it?” said Hubert. 

“It’s splendid,” agreed Mrs. Faraday, staring at her 
boy. 


THE LAKE 


11 


"It’s awful good of him to give it to me.” Hubert 
held the watch to his ear, or, really, he pressed it against 
his cheek, under the pretense of listening. 

“He said that every boy should have a watch when 
he’s twelve years old,” Mrs. Faraday remarked, after 
a pause. 

“You bet he ought to,” grinned the lad. 

He had forgotten about the other parcel. “Better open 
this one, too,” said his mother. 

“You hold this, then.” He gave the watch into her 
curiously reluctant palm. The other box contained an 
electric flash-light, the first that the boy had ever seen. 
“Golly! Ain’t it a funny thing?” he said breathlessly, 
when its purpose had been made clear. “You don’t have 
to have a lantern, ner anything. 

“No. When you have to shut the window in the 
night, when it rains, you can go right over to it, without 
falling under the table,” his mother laughed; “and 
when you’re hunting for eggs in the dark places in the 
barn, you can use it, too; and when you forget to bring 
in the wood, in the winter, until after dark. You mustn’t 
wear it out by putting it off and on, but keep it till you 
need it. You’ll use the current up too much, Uncle Alec 
said, if you aren’t careful.” 

“Golly,” the boy repeated, out of the paucity of his 
vocabulary. He was overwhelmed with his good fortune. 
Two such presents in one day, not to mention the silver 
dollar and the base-ball mitt. He hardly knew what to 
say or think. 

“I must get on with my work,” said Averil. “I’ll put 
the watch away in the dining-room.” She set about her 
tasks in the old dark-walled kitchen, which was a store¬ 
room in the winter. Its windows looked out upon the 


12 


THE LAKE 


trunks of the hemlock trees and the clustered stems of 
the high bushed cranberries. It was a cool place in the 
summer, but shadowed, not an exhilarating room for a 
woman to spend her time in, at the round of woman’s 
work. 

Hubert stood a long time at the dining-room table, 
handling his wonderful new possessions. At last he laid 
them aside, and went down to wade in the lake, and fish 
for clams in the marl. It was fun to see them spurt out 
a stream of water from their shells, as they closed the 
doors against the enemy. Hubert put the clams care¬ 
fully into the water, after they had shut themselves in. 
He was not given to destruction, and could not bear to 
kill anything. 

******* 

Willard Faraday came home from his work in the field, 
humming and swinging his hammer. It was the most 
flawless of June days, a day to be happy in, and forget 
trouble. The dinner was on the table—the farmer’s 
hearty meal. Mrs. Faraday was a good cook. On 
the cheap oak sideboard (Willard had bought it from 
some people who were moving away) there was a 
cocoanut custard pie, with a dewy meringue at the 
top: a birthday treat for the boy arrived at youth’s 
estate. 

“Weill” Willard threw down his hat and his hammer 
on the seat of the rocking chair, and went into the 
kitchen to wash his hands. “It smells fine. I’m hungry 
as a hero. Long time since breakfast.” He was rubbing 
his hands with the towel. He hung it on the wooden peg, 
and turned toward the dining-room. Hubert came to¬ 
ward his father with his two new presents in his hands. 


THE LAKE 13 

“See, pa, what I got,” he exulted, displaying the gifts. 
“See what I got.” 

Faraday stopped and stared. His eyes narrowed. 
“Where’d you get those?” he asked. His hands were 
hanging at his sides, and his fingers worked convul¬ 
sively. 

“Uncle Alec gave 'em to me—he left ’em here for 
me. I was weeding in the garden. See—a watch, and 
one of these here things that flash a light.” The boy 
snapped on the glow of the electric flash, which showed 
sickly yellow in the sun. 

Willard, ominously silent, took a step forward into 
the room. He stretched his hand for the watch. Hubert 
gave it hesitatingly. His fingers fumbled on the smooth 
rim, the fluted knob at the stem. Willard stood looking 
at it for a long time. He turned it over and turned it 
back. “A damned fine watch,” he said at last. He 
turned upon his wife. She was standing behind' him, her 
eyes wide, her face tense. “So Alec was here this morn¬ 
ing, was he?” the man asked, in a studiedly casual tone. 

“Yes. Just a minute,” she said hurriedly. “He came 
to bring Bertie his things.” 

“His birthday presents,” the man corrected her. “He 
called you in, of course, Bert, to get your birthday pres¬ 
ents.” 

“No, I was working out in the lettuce bed,” Hubert 
hastened to say. He looked alarmed, but still proud and 
happy. 

“Oh, he didn’t ask you to come in?” 

“Come, let’s have dinner,” said Averil, with an at¬ 
tempt at carrying off the situation. “It’ll get cold.” 

“There’s cocoanut pie,” cried Bert, willing now to dis¬ 
tract his father’s attention. “Come on.” 


14 


THE LAKE 


“A damned fine watch,” said Willard Faraday, gazing 
down at the timepiece in his hand. His face was dis¬ 
torted, and his whole body quivered. “Such a good 
watch that it ought to be put where nothing can happen 
to it.” He walked toward the entry which led to the 
front door. 

Mrs. Faraday gasped. “What are you going to do?” 
she asked breathlessly. She clutched at the door jamb as 
she followed him. 

“Put it where nothing can happen to it.” Faraday 
opened the door to the entry, and walked toward the 
front door. 

“Oh, pa, what are you doing?” quavered Bert, run¬ 
ning behind. Faraday, without a glance at the boy, 
stood on the threshold and raised his arm. “Oh, pa, my 
watch, my watch!” screamed the lad, reaching futile 
hands for his treasure. “Oh, pa, please-” 

With a strong downward skimming motion, Faraday 
had thrown the watch far out over the water. It glit¬ 
tered, cast up sparkles, disappeared. Hubert shrieked as 
it went down. 

“Where’s that other thing?” Faraday turned back. 
His hard narrowed eyes ignored both wife and child. 

“You shan’t, you shan’t!” Hubert was sobbing, and 
tears were flowing down his cheeks. “Don’t let him, ma, 
don’t let him.” Averil shrank from the man as he went 
past her. She did not speak. A sick look of terror and 
despair were on her face. Hubert dashed into the dining¬ 
room, snatched his flash-light, and threw himself on the 
old sofa, face down, the flash under him. “You shan’t, 
you shan’t,” he was screaming. His little bare feet were 
beating the floor. Willard strode over to him, and seized 
him by the arm. 



THE LAKE 


15 


“Stop, Willard, stop!” Averil’s voice was high with 
fear. “Don’t you do that. Whatever you think, it isn’t 
fair for you to hurt the boy. It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair,” 
she repeated passionately, pushing him away. 

The man stood facing her, his mouth working, with¬ 
out speech. He let go his hold upon the boy. The 
hammer lay where he had laid it, upon the seat of the 
rocking chair. He stepped forward and grasped it. For 
a moment the woman was frozen with horror, but when 
she saw what he was going to do, she kept quiet, con¬ 
temptuously. The hammer came down on the table, 
with its neat array of crockery and glass. Again and 
again he struck, smashing the big platter, the tureen, 
the tumblers full of water, the tea cups, the brown tea 
pot full of hot tea, the bread plate, the butter dish, the 
pile of smaller plates set aside for the dessert, the favour¬ 
ite flowered, plate holding the little boy’s birthday treat. 

Silenced, the lad on the sofa raised his head and stared, 
cowering and blanching. The last stroke completed the 
devastation. Willard, white as a dead man, cast the 
hammer on the floor and fled, leaving the screen door 
wide open, as another man had left it that day. The 
woman and the boy heard him crunching the gravel in 
the path which led to the barn. Then they heard him 
shouting at the horses as he hitched them to the light 
buggy. Hubert had resumed his sobbing, and his mother 
knelt with her arm around him. They did not speak 
until they saw the buggy lunging past the house, and 
down the lane to the road. The furious screeching of the 
wheels mingled with the cracking of the whip and the 
muttering and swearing of the driver. 

Now Hubert cried, heartbroken for his watch, the 
beautiful lost treasure. “Oh, mama, why did he do it?” 


16 


THE LAKE 


he stammered, sinking against his mother’s breast. “Why 
did he throw it away?” 

Averil Faraday, her tearless eyes hidden against his 
hair, could only murmur, “I’m so sorry, so sorry. My 
poor little boy!” 

******* 

Late that night, Averil Faraday, lying awake in her 
room at the front of the house, heard Willard come driv¬ 
ing into the yard. The wheels made a slow scraping on 
the pebbles, and the horses’ hoofs sank almost without 
noise into the sand and grass. After a while, she heard 
the man come in through the shed, and she detected the 
subdued thud of parcels being put down on the dining¬ 
room table, now clear of the havoc of noon-time, and 
placidly covered with its checked blue cloth. Heavy, yet 
restrained, footsteps mounted the stairs, and entered the 
room across the narrow hall. Muffled movements fol¬ 
lowed, then the creaking of the bed. There was not to be 
much sleeping in the house that night. Even Hubert had 
had another fit of weeping at bed time, and had slept only 
uneasily, with starts and cries. Averil had gone twice 
to his room to comfort him. 

Now she lay with her arm across her eyes, to shut out 
even the faint light of the moon reflected from the lake. 
She heard the wind swishing in the sedges along the 
shore, and the lapping of the waves against the little 
space of sand where the boat was drawn up, and where 
Bertie played at digging trenches and catching clams. 
Her mind was almost torpid. What was the use of 
thinking? She had thought and thought until she seemed 
incapable of further effort. The only thing that stirred 
her to emotion was the remembered voice of the boy, as 


THE LAKE 


17 


he had asked her, with sobbing, “Why, why, mother? 
Why, why?” She writhed, burying her face and its pro¬ 
tecting arm deep in the pillow. 

******* 

The next morning, Faraday was up early, and out 
looking after the stock. Averil rose and dressed and 
went downstairs. Upon the table in the dining-room lay 
several large parcels, which rattled when she touched 
them. They contained dishes, pretty ones, she noted as 
she took off their wrappings; better dishes than those 
which had been broken. She sighed, caressing the blue 
spray across the plates. She had said more than once 
that she liked dishes with blue figures on them, pale and 
scattered figures, not heavy and coarse. It was strange 
that Willard had remembered. She hurried to wash them 
and put them away, that nothing need be said. Willard 
had built the fire in the stove, and Averil set about her 
share of the morning’s tasks. Breakfast was ready, and 
the dishes and their wrappings had disappeared, when 
Willard came in. Averil had set the table with crockery 
from the cupboard, the plain white ironstone which was 
used “for common.” Willard was haggard, and he did 
not speak, as he washed his hands and dried them. Yet 
his silence was not that of fury, but of shame. His 
anger was so mad, so raging, while it lasted, and then it 
died out into the bitterest self-condemnation and abase¬ 
ment. Averil had seen it all before. Every time, it had 
seemed as if she could never feel anything but contempt 
for him again; and then she could not stifle her pity, not 
for his wrath, but for his humiliation. 

At breakfast they could not look at each other, but 
they tried to talk—about the corn in the far field, and 


18 


THE LAKE 


the prospects for a good fruit year, and the weasel that 
was carrying off the young chicks. Willard, in his soiled 
blue chambray shirt, and with his hair in disorder, was 
not a pleasing object of contemplation. He was not a 
drinking man, and he had not now been drinking, but his 
hand shook as he reached for his coffee cup. His dark 
eyes, lowered to his plate, were full of misery. Averil, 
with sorrow and compassion in her heart, kept her face 
expressionless, as she had trained herself to do, during 
the last twelve years. 

They were both glad, but a trifle shaken, when Hubert 
came down, earlier than usual, his hair rumpled, one 
cheek reddened with long pressure of the pillow. He 
looked uncertainly from one to the other of the older 
people, as if surprised to see them eating together with 
such outward amibility. “Hello, Bert, ,, his father 
greeted him. “Up early this morning, ain’t you?” 

“Uh-huh.” The boy pattered to the kitchen to wash 
his hands and face. 

The eyes of Averil followed him anxiously. “All right?” 
she said, as he sat down. “Here’s your coffee, and there’s 
lots of cream. That old weasel got another of Blackie’s 
chickens last night.” 

“Oh, how mean!” Hubert listened with interest to 
conjectures about the ways of the sly weasel. Averil’s 
tense muscles relaxed. Relations had been re-established, 
and things could go on as before. 


CHAPTER II 


Beyond the end of the lake, at some distance toward 
the Indian Trail bridge, lived Elizabeth Hunt and her 
children. She was known in the neighbourhood as Lib- 
bie Hunt, or sometimes Poor Libbie Hunt. She was 
poor enough, as far as the world’s goods went, though 
not by any means an object of charity; but the epithet 
was not occasioned by her poverty. It was meant to 
suggest the pity logically accruing to her because of 
the behaviour of an elusive husband. Benjamin Hunt was 
given to long absences from home, when nobody knew 
where he was, and when for months at a time he was 
almost, if not quite, forgotten—by everyone except his 
wife, Elizabeth, and who knows how nearly by her? 

The house was a story and a half high, a cottage 
unintentionally pretty, with latticed porches and wild 
grape vines, and small-paned windows. There were 
old lilac bushes along the side, and an orchard of apple 
trees at the back, where a brook ran through a marshy 
meadow. 

Libbie Hunt was stout, with a pink, good-natured 
face which ought to have pleased anyone, except per¬ 
haps the questing Benjamin. Libbie’s daughter Caddie, 
short for Carraline, was thirteen now, a scrawny little 
thing, with a surprisingly lovely curl of brown hair 
hanging between her shoulders. Caddie would never be 
good looking, her mother said philosophically, but she 
19 


20 


THE LAKE 


might get so that she’d pass in a crowd, if she’d only 
put on some flesh, like the other members of the fam¬ 
ily. Caddie only grinned, whether because she had no 
fear of staying plain, or because she suspected that put¬ 
ting on flesh might not add to her beauty, is not exactly 
clear. The other member of the family who had solid¬ 
ity enough to be boasted of was the baby brother, now 
three, a roly-poly bursting with smiles, and concerned 
not at all as to the whereabouts of a father. 

Libbie Hunt tried to run the farm herself, or such 
part of it as she did not let out “on the shares.” She 
could do almost any sort of man’s work, and a woman’s 
as well; but it came hard on her, as she said, to do 
both. 

On this morning in June, Caddie was getting ready 
for school, and packing her basket with lunch. The 
district school was not quite finished, for it had begun’ 
late in the fall, so that the children might have an 
opportunity to help with the potato-picking and corn- 
husking. 

“I hate to go, mother,” Caddie was saying, “and 
leave you with all the work. I could do an awful lot, 
if you’d let me stay.” 

“I know you could, Lady Bird,” said Mrs. Hunt, 
briskly scouring a frying pan. “But you know I want 
you to get so that you know a little something. Your 
father wants you to know more than just housework: 
how to read, and understand the things he likes.” Libbie 
Hunt lowered her face over her dishes. She seldom 
spoke of Mr. Hunt, but when she did, it was with respect 
for his education, which was greater than hers, and for 
his opinion on matters of learning. 

“Well, I don’t think it makes so much difference what 


THE LAKE 


21 


father wants,” Caddie burst out, slapping butter on her 
bread with a vindictive gesture. “If he wants me to 
know anything, why doesn’t he stay here, and help me 
learn, or do something for some of us, anyhow?” She 
had caught the family habit of seldom referring to the 
absent father, but now that the reference had been made, 
she was willing to say what she thought. 

“Hush,” said Libbie, turning to look over her shoul¬ 
der, with an uncommonly grave face. “Your father has 
his own reasons. He can’t stand this kind of life. He’s 
different,” she finished lamely. 

“Different!” Caddie stamped on the oilcloth of the 
kitchen floor, with her cheap and clumsy little shoe. “I 
should think-” 

“That’s enough,” cried Elizabeth Hunt. She was good- 
natured and easy-going, but on one thing she was firm: 
she never allowed anybody to say anything slighting 
of Benjamin. What she thought, herself, no one knew. 

Caddie gave the long aggressive sigh of the repressed. 
After a pause, she said, “I’ll come home just as soon as 
I can.” 

“Don’t hurry,” answered the mother. “I know you 
like to stay and read the books, and talk with the 
teacher.” 

“Well, I’ll see,” said Caddie. She did dearly love to 
linger after school, erasing the black-boards for the 
teacher, and peeping into the library books, few enough 
at the best, and familiar with much re-reading. “If I 
could take Brother-Boy along, it would help you a little. 
Next year he’ll be going.” 

“He’s company. I wouldn’t let him go for anything,” 
said Mrs. Hunt hastily. The child, John Benjamin, 
called John-Benjy and Brother-Boy, was named after 


22 


THE LAKE 


her father and her husband, both of whom she had 
reason to ignore. “Now, run along, or you’ll be late. 
Don’t walk alone—walk with Jensens. They’ll be here 
in a minute. Don’t walk alone, Caddie.” 

“I don’t see why,” objected the girl. “It doesn’t hurt.” 
Her father had scrupulously taught her to say doesn’t, 
instead of don’t, in the right places. “I’d a lot rather go 
by myself. Ellen Jensen is always talking about how 
much land her father has, and she says yump and yob 
and yelly, when she isn’t in school.” 

“Do as I say,” admonished Libbie Hunt. “Don’t go 
around alone.” She knew why young girls should not 
walk out on wooded country roads alone, but she did not 
want to tell Caddie. “There! I see the Jensen girls. 
They’re waving from the corner.” 

Caddie ran out to kiss Brother-Boy, who was making 
a house out of chips, at the back door. She snatched her 
basket, and gave her mother a kiss, its fervour moderated 
by impatience. “Well, I’m gone,” she said. “Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye.” Mrs. Hunt went on with her labours, 
making the house clean, kneading the bread, looking 
after the child. Caddie had made the beds and tidied 
the bed-rooms, before she went. Morning always brought 
a long day’s work to the hands of Libbie Hunt. She 
made butter, and raised poultry, and kept a large garden, 
in which she nurtured vegetables and fruit for both 
summer and winter use. Sometimes she could sell a 
little at the village store, and get money to buy the 
clothing which she and the children must have. During 
the greater part of the year, the family lived literally on 
the fruit of her toil, and almost nothing except the neces¬ 
sary simple groceries came from outside the farm. 

She had just finished cleaning the bread-board, when 


THE LAKE 


23 


she heard a vehicle drive into the yard. Brother-Boy 
was eating his forenoon's snack on the back porch. 
“Now, who is that?" said Mrs. Hunt aloud. She had 
acquired the habit of talking to herself, as most people 
do who are much alone. Hastily wiping her hands, she 
ran to the screen door, at the same time that Alexander 
McLean came up on the steps. He was ruffling John- 
Benjy's curls, with a friendly hand, and John-Benjy was 
looking up at him delightedly. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt," said McLean. He never 
called her Libbie, as the other neighbours did. “I thought 
I'd stop in and see about the hay in the meadow." 

Mrs. Hunt, her hand on the door, smiled at the man 
standing with his hat off, under the grape vine which 
ran over the porch. His heavy yet not corpulent form, 
his strong shoulders and neck, gave him an appearance 
of great force. His face was not handsome, perhaps, but 
it was pleasing and well drawn. His eyes were grey- 
blue, his hair neither light nor dark, a golden brown, not 
yet thinning. His teeth were good. He laughed a great 
deal. There was something about him which suggested 
the sailor or the woodsman, more than the farmer. A 
thoughtful person would have said that, if theret had not 
been something to keep him in one place, he would have 
been a rover, an explorer, a conquistador. The neigh¬ 
bours were not thoughtful people, yet they said almost 
that very thing. 

Libbie Hunt liked Alexander McLean. He was kind 
to her, and helped her a good deal in running the farm. 
He gave her advice about fertilizers and the rotation of 
crops. He assisted her in securing renters or tenants. 
And he looked out to see that tasks were done which she 
with all her energy could hardly do for herself. The hay 


24 THE LAKE 

in the meadow beyond the house was one of his special 
concerns. 

“It ain’t quite time to cut it yet, do you think?” asked 
Libbie. 

“I don’t think so. It’s early yet; but I’ll take a look 
and see how soon I ought to get at it,” answered Mc¬ 
Lean. “You ought to get two good crops out of it.” 

“Won’t you come in?” Tardily polite, Mrs. Hunt 
swung back the screen door. Her tardiness was not for 
want of welcome, but for shyness. He knew and she 
knew that a man must not come to the house too often, 
to see a woman whose husband is away. He had not 
always been careful enough in that respect. So Libbie 
Hunt merely asked him to enter, in the tentative way 
which signifies, “It’s all right if you don’t.” 

“No. I’ve got to be getting along. A farmer doesn’t 
gain much by sitting around on summer mornings,” 
McLean replied, with his cordial laugh. “I’m going to 
the village, to get some things that Gundersen forgot, 
last Saturday night. I thought about the grass, so I 
stopped. Well, John, how does it taste? Is it good 
jam?” 

“Mmm,” nodded John. He held out the slice of bread, 
bitten full of half-circular hollows, inviting his big friend 
to share the feast. 

McLean laughed again. “No, not this time, Johnnie. 
You’re a good boy, but you must eat your own bread 
and jam. He’s a nice little fellow, Mrs. Hunt.” 

Libbie’s eyes rested on the round shining head of the 
little boy. “Yes, he’s my little man,” she said. “I'd be 
good and lonesome without him sometimes.” Her eyes 
suddenly filled with tears, she hardly knew why. Per¬ 
haps it was seeing this big dependable man standing 


THE LAKE 


25 


there on her back porch, loving her child, when her own 
man, the father of the child, did not care enough to stay. 
She felt confused, that McLean should see her crying. 
She never complained to anyone, and least of all would 
she have' relaxed her self-control before him. 

He pretended not to see. “You have two fine young¬ 
sters,” he said, stepping down toward the path. “I saw 
Caddie on her way to school.” 

“She don’t want to go,” answered Mrs. Hunt. Her 
husband’s instructions concerning doesn’t and don’t had 
been lost upon her: she had usually been cooking or sew¬ 
ing or scrubbing when he corrected her. “She thinks 
she could help me so much.” 

“School will soon be out,” said McLean. “She can 
help you all summer. But in the fall she must go again. 
It’s little enough one gets here.” 

“Yes, that’s what I tell her,” assented Mrs. Hunt 
eagerly. “She won’t die of what she gets here in the 
country. She has one more year before she finishes the 
country school.” 

“Well, she must go that long, anyhow,” said McLean. 
“Time enough to think, after that.” He was on the 
ground now, ready to go. 

“One hardly knows what to do about one’s children, 
here in the country,” Mrs. Hunt remarked. 

“That’s true,” the man answered quickly. There was 
a moment of embarrassment between them. “One 
hardly knows,” he went on more composedly, “whether 
to let them get what they can here, and\ let ’em be plain 
farmers, who don’t need to know much; or whether to 
try to send ’em away to school, and run the risk of them 
not amounting to anything, either in town or in the 
country.” He spoke with a slight occasional accent or 


26 THE LAKE 

idiom which suggested Scotland, though he had been born 
in the United States. 

“That’s what I mean,” said Mrs. Hunt. “I don’t see 
how I can send Caddie away, so I guess she’ll have to be 
satisfied with what she can get out of her books, and 
marry a farmer and settle down, without knowing very 
much.” 

McLean let his eyes search the horizon. “It would be 
great to get away,” he said. “I think sometimes it’s 
kinder to let ’em go, no matter what happens to ’em.” 
He spoke as if the thought which he had put upon the 
matter was somewhat more than was necessary for a 
bachelor without children. 

“A man can go,” said Mrs. Hunt with mild bitterness. 
Again she wondered what ailed her. She never said 
things like that. 

McLean flushed. When he had spoken, he had for¬ 
gotten the absent Benjamin. “Not always,” he said. 
“Well, good day, Mrs. Hunt. I’ll just step down and 
take a look at the grass, and then I’ll be getting on.” 
He laid a caressing hand on the head of Brother-Boy. 

“Good day.” Libbie watched him as he walked through 
the thick grass of the orchard; then she turned back into 
the house. As she went about her work, she thought of 
Alexander McLean. He had a good house, too large for 
him, so that half of it was closed. An old Danish woman 
kept house for him, in her clean but foreign way. Some¬ 
times he had had to fend for himself; but since he had 
found Mrs. Gundersen, he had fared better. It was 
queer that he stayed, thought Libbie Hunt. He really 
wasn’t cut out for a farmer, though he prospered well 
enough, with his Scotch shrewdness, and his easy way 
of not seeming to do much, yet getting everything done. 


THE LAKE 


27 


He had the faculty, not explicable to the casual, of find¬ 
ing hired men when there were apparently none to be 
found, and of keeping them contented when other people 
couldn’t hold them for love or money. 

People liked him and called him Alec, and yet they 
made conjectures about him, and talked about him be¬ 
hind his back. As for Libbie, she paid no heed, so she 
told herself, to the rumours which went round concerning 
him. They had cropped up and died out, and cropped 
up again more times than she could remember during 
the last twelve or thirteen years. He had been on his 
place when she came, and she recalled the first time that 
she had seen him. The bride of Benjamin, who had not 
yet succumbed to his passion for roving, she was riding 
with her husband near the Indian Trail bridge, and they 
had met a young man leading a big black horse, taking 
it perhaps to a more distant pasture. The man walked 
with his hand on the horse’s neck. His brown hair, worn 
longer then than now, was tossed by the wind. His 
cheeks were smooth and red. The swing of his walk 
suggested the woodsman or the mountaineer. He was 
young then, not more than twenty-four. He had been 
something of a sensation in the countryside, and most 
of the girls, now married women with increasing families, 
had looked at him boldly or shyly, with invitation in 
their eyes. He had somehow withstood them all. It 
would have been better, Libbie reflected, if he had taken 
one of them—it did not matter much which—and mar¬ 
ried her and lived in companionship and had a family of 
his own. That, or the wandering life for which he had 
confessed a longing, would have been the thing for him; 
not the anomalous half-life which he was living, against 
his nature and against his judgment. 


28 


THE LAKE 


“It’s strange, what traps people get caught in,” said 
Libbie, aloud, as she took down her sunbonnet, to go out 
to her weeding. “ ‘Traps/ that’s the right word. They’re 
shut and locked, and there don’t seem to be any key.” 
She stopped to wash John-Benjy’s face, and then took 
the little lad with her to the cabbage rows, and let him 
make haycocks of the weeds which she pulled from the 
teeming earth. 

******* 

Hubert had not gone to school that day. He had been 
nervous and fretful on Sunday, and his father had had 
to coax and cajole before the boy would go near him or 
have much to do with him. They did not go to church 
at the village—neither Willard nor Averil could make 
the effort; and so Willard had had time to make willow 
whistles for Bert, and give him a ride on the mare, and 
take him out on the lake in the boat, skimming along 
the shore, at the farthest possible distance from the spot 
where the watch had disappeared. Hubert had lapsed 
into acquiescence, but he made Willard uncomfortable 
by staring at him steadily and speculatively, without 
speech. 

On Monday, Hubert shrank from going to school. 
“It’s silly,” Averil scolded, with simulated scorn. 
“There’s only a few days more, anyhow, and you 
don’t want to go. You aren’t sick, and what excuse 
can you have?” She concealed her pity for the nervous 
lad. 

“The boys call me Bertie,” said Hubert. “And I 
wanted to show them my watch.” His mouth quivered. 
It was the first time that he had mentioned the watch 
since Saturday night. 


THE LAKE 29 

Averil winced. “But there’s the flash,” she said. “The 
boys will think that’s fine.” 

Bert shook his head. “They’d want to keep turning 
it on and off, and they’d get it so it wouldn’t work,” he 
demurred. “And anyway, it ain’t like a watch.” 

Averil went back to her work without speaking; then 
she said, “Well, all right. Stay at home this morning, if 
you want to, but you’ll have, to stay outdoors and keep 
busy. I can’t have you sitting round the house, looking 
glum.” 

Hubert was out at the pebbly place at the end of the 
lake, hunting for pollywogs, when Alexander McLean 
came along on his way to the village. McLean pulled 
up his horses with a start when he saw the boy in his 
rolled-up overalls, bending down over the water. “How’s 
this?” he called, not without sharpness. “No school 
to-day, Bert?” 

Bert looked up, startled. His eyes met those of the 
man. “I—I didn’t want to go,” he faltered, the colour 
rising in his cheeks. He didn’t know what to say to 
Uncle Alec about the watch. He waded out to the 
grassy bank, while Alexander twisted the reins about 
the whip, and got out of his buckboard. 

“What’s the matter?” asked the man, a line coming 
between his eyes. “You aren’t sick, are you, lad?” 

Hubert shook his head. “No. But mama said I could 
stay out this morning. I didn’t want to go.” 

“Why?” 

Hubert dug with his bare toe into the grass roots. 
He looked down at his glass jar of muddy water in which 
three lumpy tadpoles were swimming. “I don’t know. 
I didn’t want to.” His throat swelled, and his shoulders 
shivered. 


30 


THE LAKE 


Alexander stood looking down at him silently. There 
was suffering in his face. At last he said, “Did you get 
the watch I left for you on Saturday?” 

Hubert nodded, with his eyes still on the tadpoles. 

“Did you like it?” asked McLean gently. 

Hubert nodded again. The magnificence of the watch 
rose before him—its excellent shining case, its white face, 
its swiftly moving second-hand, that went faster than 
your heart could beat. His lips shook. 

Alexander laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Tell 
me what’s the matter,” he said. The kindness in his 
voice could not be withstood. 

The child broke into sobs. Alec, crouching on the 
ground, put his arm around him. “Tell me,” he said 
with tender fierceness, “has anyone been mean to you? 
Has anybody hurt you?” 

Bert, his forehead on the man’s shoulder, could only 
stammer and gasp. “He took my watch—he took it 
away from me. He threw it into the lake ” A nervous 
tremor tore him. 

McLean started, and went red. He bit his lip, and 
his brow darkened. “He threw it away—into the lake?” 
he repeated, almost stupidly. “What did he do that 
for?” 

Hubert was sobbing now, in earnest, as a little boy 
cries who has been shocked and hurt by inexplicable 
grown-up behaviour. “I don’t know,” he answered. He 
was fumbling for a non-existent handkerchief. McLean 
pulled a fresh white square from his pocket and wiped 
the boy’s eyes. “I was just showing it to him, when he 
came in from the field, and he took it in his hand, and 
he says, ‘This is a damn’ fine watch,’ he says—‘It ought 
to be put away,’ or somethin’, he says,—I don’t remem- 


THE LAKE 31 

ber what—an’ then he went to the front door, and he 
threw it—he threw it, as far as he could throw. It 
splashed hard, and went down in the water, just where 

it’s deepest—you know, the blue place-” The boy 

stopped, rent by sobs, in the recounting of his tragedy. 

“Oh, lad! I’m sorry, now,” said McLean. “And didn’t 
he say why he did it?” 

The boy shook his head, still gulping. “No. Mama 
asked him, but he didn’t say. I wouldn’t let him have 
the flash-light, though,” he went on with feeble triumph. 
“I put it under my stomach, and laid down on the lounge; 
and mama pulled him away.” 

“Was that all?” asked McLean tensely. He looked 
across at the house, as if he could visualize the scene. 

“No.” Hubert sobbed afresh. “He took the hammer 
—he’d been mending the fences—and he took the ham¬ 
mer, and broke the dishes. We was just goin’ to have 
dinner, and there was cocoanut pie.” 

“My God!” McLean gave a groaning snort of laughter. 
“Broke the dishes! Cocoanut pie! God, what a scene!” 
He kept on laughing, so that Hubert raised his eyes and 
stared. But Uncle Alec’s face did not look as if he were 
laughing. It looked as if he had burnt himself, or 
caught his hand in the door. Hubert culled these notions 
from his own remembrance of pain. 

Alexander rose from his crouching position, and stood 
with the boy’s form pressed against him. Then he sat 
down on a boulder, still holding the child by the arm. 
“I must be getting along,” he said. “But now I want to 
tell you something, Bert. It was hard lines to lose the 
watch, but there are other watches in the world. I want 
you to be a man now. You’re twelve years old. You’re 
too old to cry. Whatever happens to you, don’t cry. 


32 


THE LAKE 


Stand up and take it. Don’t cry!” He shook the boy, 
without roughness. “Do you hear? No whining from 
now on.” The boy was shamefaced, roused from self- 
pity. “Tell your mother I know,” Alex continued, as he 
turned to go. Hubert nodded. “Not anyone else.” It 
was not likely, Bert thought, that he should speak to 
his father about what Uncle Alec had said. He was 
ashamed that Uncle Alec should think him a baby. It 
was silly to cry, but he had not seemed able to help it. 
“Go to school this afternoon,” was McLean’s last ad¬ 
monition. 

He drove away, the seat of the buckboard sagging 
with his weight. He scowled, and he did not look back 
at the boy. He was muttering, but Hubert could not 
understand his words. They sounded like either swear¬ 
ing or praying. Hubert did not feel interested in the 
tadpoles after that. He emptied the jar into the water, 
and went slowly home, around the end of the lake and 
up the lane, where the acacia boughs were bending, and 
bees were sucking the nectar from white clusters of 
bloom. 

Averil was sweeping, and she had a kitchen towel 
around her head. Under it her eyes looked heavy and 
dark. “I saw Uncle Alec,” said Bert, leaning in at the 
door post. “He came along when I was hunting polly- 
wogs.” 

Averil’s broom hesitated, but went on. “Did you?” 
she said dully. “What did he have to say?” 

“He asked me about the watch,” Bert replied. 

“Did you tell him?” 

“Yes. I told him it was in the lake—and about pa’s 
breaking the dishes.” 

“What did he say?” Averil did not look up. 


THE LAKE 


33 


“He laughed/’ said Hubert. 

“Laughed?” queried Averil, drawing in her breath. 

“Well, it sounded as if he was laughing, but when I 
looked at him, he didn’t seem to be,” Bert went on. “He 
said ‘Cocoanut pie! My God!’ ” 

Averil’s lips twitched. “I suppose it is funny,” she 
said; “or it would be to some people. Maybe even to 
Alec.” 

“It didn’t sound just like swearing,” Bert remarked. 
Then he added, “Uncle Alec made me promise I’d go to 
school this afternoon.” 

“He has some sense,” retorted Averil. “I should have 
made you go this morning.” 

“Then I wouldn’t have seen Uncle Alec,” Hubert made 
reply. He had a misty feeling that his encounter with 
Uncle Alec had been important. 

“No. Well, you would have seen him some time. But 
I’m glad he knows about the watch.” 

“Will he be mad at pa, do you think?” asked the boy. 

Averil considered while she went for the dust pan. 
“No, I guess not,” she said. “If he wanted to be mad, 
he’d have been mad long ago. It isn’t any use; and, 
Bertie, you know your father is awfully sorry about what 
he did. I wouldn’t say anything to him about it, if I 
were you.” 

“Naw, I sh’d think not. Say, ma, don’t you think 
I’d better have an awful early dinner, so’s I can be sure 
to get to school on time?” 

“Why, yes, I think you ought.” Averil' glanced at the 
clock. “I’ll get you something in a little while. It’s too 
early yet. Maybe you’d like to go out and get the 
eggs.” 

Hubert went out to the big shadowy barn, where the 


34 


THE LAKE 


dust motes rode the sunbeams coming down through 
rifts in the shingles. It always seemed mysterious in 
there. The woods were not far behind it, and there 
were sounds from the trees and bushes, crackling and 
sighing, the kind of sounds which cannot be accounted 
for. As Bert stepped inside, a sudden rapping pealed 
upon the roof. He gave a great start, and looked up. 
The rapping came again, and he knew it was merely the 
noise of a woodpecker on the ridgepole. He hunted for 
the eggs, andt found seven, flesh-white and warm, hidden 
in h-ollows in the mow. He carried them to an old tin 
basin which had been used for watering the little chicks. 
Then he sat down in the doorway of the barn, in the 
sun. He did not think, exactly, but he did what passes 
for thinking, in the mind of a boy. He could see the back 
of the house, white in the sun, with flecks of shade from 
the cherry trees, and darker patches from the hemlocks. 
And beyond, he could see the lake, all blue and silver. 
In his mind was a, jumble of ideas—the watch, and how 
it lay in the marl, down under that shining surface; and 
Uncle Alec, and what he had said about crying and 
being a baby when anything happened that hurt you 
awfully, and taking things like a man. Until that time, 
Hubert had been, in spite of his approaching twelfth 
birthday, a small boy, somewhat younger than his age; 
but to-day, in the few minutes which he spent on the 
barn door-sill, he grew older by many months. He’d 
take things like a man, after this, he resolved, no matter 
what they were, nor how they hurt. He was sure that 
Uncle Alec had always taken things like a man. When 
he went into the house, he straightened his shoulders and 
tried to walk as if he were taller, as if he had a man’s 
stature as well as a man’s courage. He entered the house 


THE LAKE 


35 


with the eggs, in an exaltation of self-respect which gave 
him a new and actually an older look. His mother, 
frying bacon at the stove in the summer kitchen, gave 
him a glance of perplexity, but said nothing; and he 
strode on upstairs to get ready for school. 

******* 

Willard Faraday, working in the far fields, alone with 
himself, hoed his early corn with mechanical motions, 
while his mind went on in its unceasing debate, its eternal 
questioning, accusing, excusing, repudiating, desiring, in¬ 
quiring, condemning, and forgiving. Nobody knew the 
turmoil in which he lived. As he went about, tilling his 
fields, caring for his stock, planning his seed time, and 
gathering in his harvests, he was a figure which moved 
and spoke and acted; but his soul was a different world. 

To-day shame was added to the suspicion and bitter¬ 
ness which were his daily companions. He was ashamed 
of his behaviour, ashamed of the humiliation which he 
had suffered before his child. 

He went over endless rememberings and conjectures. 
He wondered why Averil had married him at all. They 
had grown up together, back in western New York. He 
had always wanted her, always loved her, always been 
savagely, passionately bent on possessing her. She had 
taken him acquiescingly at the last, and he had been so 
carried away by the amazement and delight of her yield¬ 
ing, that for a long time it had not occurred to him to 
inquire too curiously into her reasons. He had taken it 
for granted that she loved him, else why should she 
marry him? In Willard Faraday’s code, people married 
the people that they loved. Of course, he knew that 
Averil’s mother had wanted Averil to marry him; but 


36 


THE LAKE 


he had not supposed that a girl could be over-persuaded 
into a marriage unless she actually, if secretly, wanted 
the man herself. 

Averil had always been quiet, ever since she was a 
little thing, not given to outbursts or to demonstrations 
of affection. He had not expected too much of her. It 
had been all right, he told himself over and over, until 
they had come out here to the Middle West, where things 
had been different, and they had had to start in at 
making a place for themselves in a new neighbourhood. 
Only seldom did he say, out and out to himself, that 
things had been all right until they had found Alec 
McLean. To-day he admitted this much; but when he 
had said it, he checked himself, with a sharp pain some¬ 
where in his body or mind, he did not know which, and 
asked whether, after all, it had been so right before they 
had met McLean. Had the difference made its begin¬ 
ning at that time, or had it not? Willard, bending over 
the corn, hoe in hand, peered into the shroudings of the 
past, to discern what had been there that he had not 
seen. 

Little scenes, phrases, nothings almost, came up to 
confuse him, to fill him with doubt and distrust, and to 
throw his condemnation back upon himself. After all, 
if he had not been able to hold her, even from the first, 
he could not blame anyone else. And then the question 
came. Blame them for what? Averil was blameless, 
white, beyond the smirching of a grimy thought. Averil 
was his wife, the mother of his boy,—the mother— 
Willard Faraday dug his hoe so savagely into the earth 
that the young jade-green corn came up with it. He 
groaned, bending to replace the blades in the earth. On 
and on went the mechanical man, and on and on went 


THE LAKE 37 

his hoe, and on and on the never-ceasing whirling chaos 
of his thoughts. 

When he came to the end of the row next to the fence, 
he looked off toward the house, as he always did. But 
he could not see it, for it was hidden behind grassy 
stretches, and cherry trees, and acacias. He could see 
the chimney and a window or two, and the black hem¬ 
locks behind it; but he could not see who came and 
went—whether a man stole in or out on a summer morn¬ 
ing or an autumn afternoon. In winter it was better, 
for he could be around the house almost all the time. 
There would be whole days when he could watch the 
lane leading up from the road to the house; and no one 
could very well come in from the other side, because his 
tracks would show too plainly on the snow-covered ice. 
Willard was glad about the lake. It stretched along 
protectingly for nearly a mile; and when it was not 
frozen, he took good care to look often, to see whether a 
boat were hidden anywhere along the shore. 

When his watch showed twelve o’clock, Willard stood 
his hoe up against the fence, and plodded back to the 
house, his shoes heavy with the loam of the field. The 
marks of his mental sufferings lay like scars upon his 
face. 

******* 


That night Hubert said, after supper had been eaten, 
and when the dishes were being cleared away, “Let’s 
go out on the lake, mama. Can’t we? It’s an awful 
nice evening.” 

“Why, I guess we can,” said Averil. “Ask your father 
if he’ll go.” 

“Pa,” called Bert from the dining-room, where Averil 


38 


THE LAKE 


was putting the clean dishes into the cupboard, “will you 
go out on the lake with us?” 

“No. I got plenty to do,” answered Willard, more 
gruffly than he intended. He was in the summer kitchen, 
pouring out sour milk for the young pigs. “I got to look 
after things. You and your mother can go.” Sometimes 
it seemed to Willard that he could not bear to go out 
on the lake with Averil. There had been times, when 
they first came to this place, when the lake had given 
him almost perfect happiness. He and Averil had gone 
out together, and he had felt an inexpressible joy in the 
coolness and beauty of the evening, and in the isolation 
of himself and his beloved between the water and the 
sky. But of latel years it had been different. And there 
was the boy,—he would always be talking and somehow 
coming between. 

Hubert and Averil went down to the place where the 
boat was tied. A small dock of two planks edged round 
with irises gave foothold for descent into the boat. 

“I’ll row,” said Bert. 

“Don’t you want me to?” asked Averil. 

“No. I’d rather.” Hubert was proud of his skill as 
a boatman. 

“All right.” Averil settled herself in the stern of the 
boat, leaning back comfortably. 

Hubert pushed off and sat down to the oars. He could 
row well enough, though clumsily. The lake was abso¬ 
lutely smooth, precisely picturing the sky above, pale 
greenish blue, with the stars nearly imperceptibly prick¬ 
ing their way out of the obscure. Long black shadows 
along the shore reflected the massed hemlocks. Farther 
on were low basswood trees, and tamaracks, and tangled 
shrubbery, now exuberantly in flower. 


THE LAKE 


39 


Averil gave scant attention to what the boy was say¬ 
ing. His voice sounded far away, indistinct, and una¬ 
vailing. But its insistence brought her back from her 
own thoughts. 

“It’s kind of lonesome here,” Averil heard him say¬ 
ing, as if the idea had but just occurred to him. “Don’t 
you think it’s lonesome, ma?” 

The woman smiled, not without irony. “Why, I sup¬ 
pose it is,” she answered. For years she had felt so 
keenly the pangs of loneliness that even talking about 
them seemed futile. 

“Don’t you get lonesome, when pa and I are away all 
day?” asked the lad. It was an evidence of his growing 
up in that half hour at the barn, that he knew enough 
to ask such a question. 

“Yes, Bertie, of course I do,” Averil replied. “But you 
know women always have a lot of work to do, that keeps 
them busy.” 

“Mm-huh,” answered Bert. 

“It keeps their hands busy,” said Averil, as if to 
herself; “but it doesn’t keep their minds busy enough. 
They have time to think of other things.” 

“What kind of things?” asked Hubert, labouring at 
the oars. 

“Oh, things that have happened, and things that might 
happen,” said Averil. “All sorts of things.” 

“It’s funny to keep thinking all the time, isn’t it, ma?” 
said Bert, after a while. 

“Yes. We can’t stop if we try,” returned Averil. 

“It’s all right when you’re thinking about something 
nice,” commented the boy. 

“Yes, but not so fine when you aren’t,” Averil agreed 
absently. 


40 


THE LAKE 


“My watch is just about down in here,” said Hubert 
in a low voice. He peered down into the deep lake, 
black and horrible under the shadow of the boat. He 
seemed to see it lying there in the darkness and the mud, 
its white face defiled with ooze, its shining silver case 
sinking deeper out of all knowing, into inaccessible 
depths. Averil did not say anything. She was gazing 
fascinated into the blackness. Hubert said timidly: 
“Do you think we could fish it up, ma?” 

“No, dear,” Averil answered with firmness. “We 
couldn’t fish it up. We couldn’t possibly. Don’t think 
about it any more. Don’t think about it.” 

“But you can’t help thinking,” answered Hubert help¬ 
lessly. “You have to think, ma.” 

“Try not to,” said Averil. “Think about something 
else, anyway.” 

Hubert felt a lump coming in his throat, as he pulled 
at the oars. His mother looked sharply at him through 
the dusk. Then he remembered what Uncle Alec had 
said: “No whining, from now on.” So he began to whis¬ 
tle, a bit tremulously. “I can feather the oars,” he said, 
and ostentatiously dipped the paddles so that they feath¬ 
ered, sparkling faintly in the light from the west. 

“That’s fine,” said his mother. 

They went along the shore, creeping near the low 
banks, overhung with Juneberry bushes, now in white 
bloom, showing foamily against the shade. Beyond, the 
hemlock grove was black and menacing. Any sort of 
thing might hide in there, Hubert thought. There was 
no knowing what might be spying upon them from the 
murky places. 

“There’s the graveyard,” he said in an awed tone. 
Clearly outlined against the shadows nearest the ground 


THE LAKE 


41 


were a half-dozen white sagging headstones, surrounded 
by a broken picket fence. The earliest dwellers in the 
house had, as was often the custom in country districts, 
buried their dead near their own human habitation. In 
an undefined way, Averil felt the pathetic quality of the 
neglected little group of graves—relics of lives of pas¬ 
sion and fear and anguish and flitting joy which had 
once seemed real, as real as what she was experiencing 
now. “It’s queer to have a graveyard here,” continued 
Hubert. “Why do you s’pose they did it, ma?” 

“I suppose they wanted to have their own people near 
them,” answered the woman uncomfortably. Why should 
anyone do a thing like that? 

“But they weren’t their own people after they were 
dead, were they?” asked Hubert. “If they’d gone to 
heaven, what was the use of having their graves here?” 
He felt the contradictory character of popular theology, 
the muddled sense which envisions the lost one among 
angel hosts, and still figures him as somewhere down un¬ 
der the grass, among the roots of trees. 

“It does seem foolish,” Averil said; “but people are 
that way.” She did not feel capable of coping with the 
problems of the next life. This one was confusing 
enough. She merely wanted to rest there on the surface 
of the lake, in the precarious safety of the boat, and feel 
the peace of dusk and loveliness which she only dimly 
understood. The talk of the boy irritated her, not 
acutely, but vaguely; partly because she knew he was 
waking up to the unexplainable phases of life, and begin¬ 
ning to ask questions which she could never answer, and 
partly because she wanted to escape such questions her¬ 
self, and to be let alone to get what she could out of an 
hour of beauty in the midst of the ugliness of her ex- 


42 


THE LAKE 


istence. To distract herself and him, she said, “I must 
get your father to fix that fence and straighten up the 
stones. It don’t seem right, somehow, to have the place 
so kind of forgotten. Somebody cared for those people 
once.” 

“Yes, I wish he’d do it,” said Hubert. He pondered. 
“How could they sell their folks’ graves, I wonder? Did 
pa know he was buying graves, when he bought this 
land?” 

“I—I don’t think so,” faltered Averil. “I don’t sup¬ 
pose he did.” 

Hubert fell silent, thinking about what his mother had 
said, and about the strange idea of people’s being both 
dead and alive at the same time—up in the sky and down 
in the ground. He looked up at the sky where the stars 
were showing, as if he might see some spectral being 
afloat there. But the oars slipped in his hands, and the 
boat swerved from its path, and water spattered on his 
mother’s white knitted shawl; and so he gave up the 
problems of theology, and took to feathering the oars 
again, to show that he was not so clumsy as he seemed. 


CHAPTER III 


The next evening, immediately after supper, Alexander 
McLean drove over in his buckboard. He came over 
frequently—two or three times a week. There was noth¬ 
ing to keep him at home, he said; and he had to find 
company among the neighbours. Alec and Willard had 
been friends ever since the Faradays had come to this 
region. In fact it was in an indirect way through the 
influence of Alec that the Faradays had come. About 
the time that Averil and Willard were married, in West¬ 
ern New York State, and Willard was trying to make 
up his mind whether to settle down there, or migrate 
farther west, his uncle had a letter from a young man 
named McLean, who had gone out to Wisconsin the year 
before. He had painted an attractive picture of his pros¬ 
perity, and had said that a farm near him was for sale, 
and he hoped that someone from home would come out. 
“Why don’t you try it, Will?” the uncle had said. “I’ll 
help you a little, and your father can give you a boost, 
and you can buy the place all right, with a mortgage on 
it.” 

“I don’t know whether Averil will go or not,” said 
Willard. 

But it seemed that Averil was willing to go, almost 
eager. She was tired of being always in one place, she 
said. She wanted a change. 

The uncle remarked one day that he had an idea that 
43 


44 


THE LAKE 


Averil had met this young McLean before he went West. 
She had visited in the next county, where McLean lived, 
and he had visited her cousins. Willard had not thought 
to ask her until just before they started for their new 
home. “Did you ever see this McLean before?” he asked 
carelessly. 

“How should I see him?” askecfy Averil. 

“Why, Uncle Phil says he was over here once or twice, 
before he went West,” Willard replied. 

“It seems to me I do remember something about a fel¬ 
low named McLean,” said Averil, in as uninterested a 
tone as his own. “Does he have black hair?” 

“I dunno,” said Willard. “Maybe, for all I know.” 
He had forgotten about the matter, and in the excite¬ 
ment of moving, he did not think of it again. Later 
when they had established themselves in the place by 
the lake, and were seeing something of McLean, Willard 
said to Averil, “Is he the fellow you thought you met?” 

“He doesn’t have black hair,” said Averil; and Willard 
forgot the matter again. During recent years, he had 
thought of it often enough, but had been too proud to 
ask, and it seemed silly to bring up such a question after 
all these years of neighbourhood friendship. 

Alexander drove into the yard with his pretty little 
white horse, Gretta, the one he liked best. He tied her 
to the post in the back yard, and came in at the dining¬ 
room door. “H’areyuh, Alec?” said Willard; and “H’are- 
yuh, Will?” said Alec. “Family in?” queried the guest. 

“Oh, yes, they’re always in, pretty near,” said Willard. 
“Come on through.” 

Averil appeared with her pleasant “Good evening,” 
and Hubert came behind her, padding in his bare feet, 
clean from recent washing. 


THE LAKE 


45 


They went through the house to the front porch, fac¬ 
ing the lake. There was an old settle there, a relic of 
the New York home. It stretched along the side of the 
house, under the windows. Averil and Hubert sat upon 
it, and the two men took the hickory chairs. 

“Think it’s going to rain?” asked Willard. 

“Shouldn’t wonder,” answered Alec. He took out his 
pipe. Willard did not smoke. “Do you care if I light 
up?” he said. 

Averil shook her head, as she always did. 

ir We need rain,” said Willard. “Everything needs it 
like Sam Hill.” 

“Well, we had a shower a day or two ago. It ain’t 
dry as a bone yet,” answered Alec. 

“No, but it will be, in a day or two.” 

“Mm-huh. How’s your potatoes coming on?” 

“Oh, pretty fair. I wish I’d put in another ten acres. 
Mart Hendricks says he heard in Prattsville that they’re 
sure to be a dollar a bushel.” 

This was the sort of conversation which went on when 
the two men were together, the kind of conversation 
which went on when any two men were together. It 
continued, with variations on the wheat, the corn, the 
turnips, and the beans. Potatoes were the chief crop, 
in which the most breathless interest centred. 

Averil could speak of the garden near the house, the 
vegetables for the summer food, the chickens, the young 
pigs. It was all very dull; yet there was in it, too, the 
stimulus of personal interest and profit. There was not 
much else to talk about. A Chicago daily paper came 
to both houses through the rural delivery, but it brought 
little of the outside world except a history of crime and 
scandal and cataclysms which concerned people so re- 


46 


THE LAKE 


mote as to have a quality of unrealness in this quiet 
country place. Presidential elections and particularly 
dramatic catastrophes and murders were the only events 
which stirred the farmers to a look at the world outside. 

McLean tried as well as he could to include Averil and 
Bert in the conversation, but the boy began to kick his 
heels against the settle, and whistle through his teeth 
in a bored way. After a while, he went into the house 
and came out with a copy of the Youth’s Companion. 
“What you got there?” inquired McLean, taking his pipe 
from his mouth. 

“See, Uncle Alec,” said Bert, coming up close to 
the guest, “there's something here that tells how polly- 
wogs grow into frogs.” He fumbled at the paper, trying 
to find the place. “And there's a story about a man that 
went up on a mountain and the wolves got after him.” 

“Fine stuff,” said Alec heartily. He held his pipe 
away from him with his left hand, while his right took 
friendly hold of the boy's blue shirt-sleeve. Bert came 
closer, and leaned against Alec's chair, and spread the 
paper out. Alec slid his arm around the waist of the 
lad with a caressing gesture which made Averil catch 
her breath. The heads of the boy and the man bent 
over the page which depicted the pollywogs. 

Willard, watching, shifted uneasily in his chair. 
Averil saw him wince as Alec’s arm tightened around 
the boy. He moved his feet back and forth nervously; 
he took out his pocket-knife and twisted it in his hands, 
and put it back into his pocket. He tapped the arm of 
his chair with his fingers. The others could not know 
the grinding pain in his heart, which he so often felt. 
He breathed irregularly; a shivering came through his 
shoulders, a tightening in his throat. The pain was not 


THE LAKE 47 

physical, perhaps, but it seemed as if it were, because 
it was so insistent and vivid and unescapable. 

For a few minutes he watched Alec and Bert, closely 
touching, absorbed, happy in this intimate contact; 
then, unable to endure any more, he said abruptly, 
“Time for you to go to bed, Buster. It’s high time you 
went to bed.” 

Hubert looked up, surprised, and then looked at his 
mother. “Why, it’s not anywhere near time,” he said, 
in frank amazement. “It isn’t dark yet.” 

“It don’t have to be dark,” said Willard. He slipped 
his hands into his trousers-pockets, to conceal the twitch¬ 
ing of his fingers. “You better run right along.” 

Alec took his hand away from the boy’s body, and 
let it drop down against the chair. He put his pipe 
back into his mouth. Furtively his eyes met those of 
Averil, who was sitting so that Willard could not see 
her face. She gave him a flickering glance of appre¬ 
hension. 

“I don’t want to go to bed,” cried Hubert indignantly. 
“It isn’t time. I never go to bed as early as this.” 

“You do as I tell you.” Willard felt himself quiver¬ 
ing with the uncontrollable anger which too frequently 
had wrought his undoing. “You heard what I said.” 

“I don’t want to go.” The boy was stung by a sense 
of injustice. “I don’t have to go, do I, Uncle Alec?” 

“I don’t have the say about it,” McLean replied; his 
teeth snapped tight upon the stem of his pipe. “You 
must do as your—as you’re told, I suppose, lad.” 

“I won’t go, I won’t!” the boy burst out. “It ain’t 
time, and I won’t go.” 

“You won’t, eh?” Willard was holding to the sides of 
his chair. He felt dimly that he must restrain himself 


48 


THE LAKE 


from doing something that he might be sorry for. Hubert 
was seldom violent or saucy. 

“Uncle Alec/’ the boy said appealingly, “don’t let him 
make me go.” 

Alec, his face dark, but his lips laughing, said care¬ 
lessly, “Oh, I can’t mix up in this. Are you sure it’s 
time, Will?” 

“My watch is in the house,” said Willard sullenly; 
“but I guess I know.” 

“If I had my watch, I could tell,” shouted the boy, 
his face distorted with sudden grief. “If I had my watch, 

that Uncle Alec gave me-” He choked, but he was 

not crying. 

Nobody paid any attention to the remark. “You’d 
better go on,” said Averil, trying to speak evenly. “I’m 
sure you’re tired enough, and you have to get up and 
go to school to-morrow. Come on. I’ll go with you.” 
Then she was in a panic, for she had a horror of leaving 
the two men together, in sucfy a crisis. 

Alec came to her rescue. “I don’t think he needs any¬ 
one to go with him,” he said quietly. “I see he’s got his 
feet washed, and he’s all ready.” 

“I’ll go with him if he don’t hurry up,” blustered 
Willard, “and I’ll take a good stout stick along. Now, 
you scoot, kid, before you get into trouble.” He was 
sorry for the fuss which he had kicked up, but there was 
nothing to do now but go on. 

Hubert, raging, turned to go. “Here’s your paper,” 
said Alec, picking up the loosened pages, which had 
fallen to the floor. He gave the boy a sympathetic 
glance. 

Bert muttered a word of thanks, and went into the 
house. They could hear him slamming and slapping 


THE LAKE 


49 


things about, and then pounding up the stairs, hate and 
defiance expressed in every sound. The three people 
on the porch sat in awkward silence. They all knew 
that Hubert had been sent to bed because Willard had 
not been able to bear seeing him in the arms of Alec. 
“Boys never want to go to bed,” said Alec laughing; but 
even he could not think of anything more to say. The 
silence threatened to become terrible. 

Averil spoke desperately of the lake, of the little white 
ripples showing, which might mean a storm; of the loons, 
crying pathetically on the other shore. Then she thought 
about the graveyard. “Oh, Willard,” she said, “when 
Bertie and I were out in the boat last night, we noticed 
how bad the little graveyard looks. The fence is broken, 
and the headstones are down. I think it would be nice 
if you’d fix it up, some day when you have time.” 

The reaction to Willard’s anger had come. He sat 
shamed, weakened. He stared at his wife without 
speaking. 

“I haven’t seen it for a long time,” said Alec casually. 
“The frost is hard on the headstones.” 

Willard raised his head with a pained motion. “Well, 
it’s a good enough place,” he said. “You can put me in 
there, when my time comes.” 

“Oh, Will!” cried Averil sharply. 

“Well, you can,” the man persisted. “I’d rather be 
there than anywheres else.” 

Alec sat looking at him steadily. Then he rose, yawn¬ 
ing, and knocked the ashes from his pipe. “I guess I’ll 
go on,” he said. 

“It’s early yet,” said Averil politely. 

“Yes, don’t hurry, Alec,” put in Willard in a con¬ 
strained tone. 


50 


THE LAKE 


“Well, I got a cow that needs looking after,” replied 
McLean. “I guess I’d go home and see how she’s 
getting along.” 

Averil and Willard went with him when he untied his 
horse and got into the buckboard. As soon as he had 
gone, Averil went into the house and up to Hubert’s 
room. Willard went back to the porch, and sat brooding, 
with his eyes on the darkening lake. 

******* 

The busy days of summer went on, full of the hard 
labor of the farm. School was out now, and Hubert 
helped his mother in the house or in the garden, or he 
fished or swam or read his books and papers. He did 
not see much of the other boys, for most of them had to 
work harder than he did, and were kept pretty closely 
to the tasks set for them by parental masters. 

The harvest came, as harvests will come, after the 
patient suspense, after the sprouting and ripening of the 
plant, whose seed is in itself. Willard Faraday and 
Alexander McLean habitually changed works; for neither 
could accomplish certain tasks alone, or even with the 
help at hand. Alec called on the telephone one day, “I’m 
cutting my rye this week. Can you come over?” 

Willard went, and Averil and Bert were alone all day. 
There was no dinner to get for Willard; and so they had 
a picnic out under the acacias, now showing green pods 
instead of scented racemes; and near the lake, in a green 
covert screened by amelanchiers heavy with red and 
purple berries. The picnic was so successful that on the 
second day they asked Caddie Hunt to go with them. 
This time they went out beyond the hemlocks, past the 
graveyard with its grassy hummocks and sagging stones 


THE LAKE 


51 


(Willard had never found time to straighten them), and 
on to a point well out in the lake, where one big butter¬ 
nut tree made a canopy and bower. From here they 
could see, far off through a gap in the woods, a chimney 
of Alec McLean’s house, which was set on a low hill. 
The two children did not notice how Averil kept looking 
toward that distant place. 

“It seems so far off, out here,” said Caddie, taking the 
food out of the basket; “as if we were miles away from 
everybody. I like it.” 

“It’s funny not to have to eat at the table,” said Bert. 
“I wish we didn’t ever have to. I wish we could just 
sit out under the trees, always, and eat like this.” 

“You’d want something different in winter,” responded 
Averil. But she knew that the boy was unconsciously 
expressing his happiness in freedom from a restraint 
which was growing more and more irksome, as Willard 
Faraday grew more suspicious and less controlled. Averil 
herself felt the relief from that searching glance, that 
rigid reserve, broken by furious ebullitions of rage and 
pain. To eat in a leisurely way, looking across the spread 
white cloth at only serene young faces, innocent of 
jealous hate; to lie under the trees and watch the 
branches swaying, or to sit and sew with long pauses 
between the running of seams,—these things were par¬ 
adise to the wearied woman. Caddie and Hubert played 
ball, watched the squirrels, ate blue-berries and June- 
berries, or sat replete and hilarious, telling tales of school 
or guessing riddles. Caddie was a year older than Bert, 
and mentally more mature than he by several years; 
and yet the two seemed to find a contented companion¬ 
ship in each other. 

They all trailed home when the sun was going down, 


52 


THE LAKE 


laughing and bringing in bunches of flowers and leaf- 
baskets full of ripe wild strawberries. As they neared 
the house, Willard came plodding up the lane, after his 
day’s work. He was sweaty, drooping-shouldered, dark 
of face, and gloomy of mien. A day with Alexander 
McLean was a strain for him, a not inconsiderable form 
of torture. To offset its miseries, he worked with 
demoniac endeavour, pitching and stacking and hurry¬ 
ing till he dripped with sweat and panted from his toil. 
“Don’t work so hard, man,” expostulated Alec. He 
himself stopped often to wash, to smoke, to refresh his 
body with food or drink. But Willard had doggedly 
held to his own methods. 

A stillness fell upon the little group at sight of him. 
He came up the lane without speaking, eyeing the three 
as if they were strangers. Averil, perturbed, noted the 
severity of his aspect. The shadow on the landscape, 
increasing with the fall of the sun, seemed somehow to 
be caused by his approach. She shrank as he went past 
her, sickened by the smell of sweat, the streaks of dirt 
along his cheeks, where dust had settled and moisture 
had run down. His shirt lay soiled and soaked along 
his back. She felt a hard constriction in her throat, a 
rising of disgust and shame, and of guilt at} the intensity 
of her recoil. Her hand went up to her throat. She 
grew pale, steadied herself against Hubert’s arm. Wil¬ 
lard, facing the group, studied her face from under 
gathered brows. He stopped, clinching his hands, his 
mouth working, his nostrils flaring. 

“Why do you look like that?” he cried, leaning for¬ 
wards toward his wife. All day he had been thinking, 
fearing, conjecturing, cursing. The long day’s labour 
had been as pastime, to his thoughts. He was infuriated 


THE LAKE 


53 


at the sight of her now, swaying there, looking at him 
in disgust only half concealed by caution—her fresh 
starched gown, her smooth black hair, her hand at her 
bosom. 

“Like what? I’m not looking like anything,” she 
parried. “What do you mean, Will?” 

The children drew a step back, edging off from the 
man who, even to their unseeing sense, had a menacing 
air. 

“You know what I mean,” he replied, thrusting his 
face close to hers. She shrank away from him still 
farther. “You look as if I was some wild man, some 
wild animal that you couldn’t bear to touch. Of course 
I’m dirty, of course I’m sweaty. I been working in the 
field all day, to earn money for you and your boy. I 
can’t stay at home and sit around dressed up, with my 
hair combed and perfumery on me. I have to work 
for you and your boy.” 

“I know you’re tired, Will,” said Averil, with com¬ 
passion in her tone, and condemnation for her own in¬ 
voluntary shrinking. “I know it’s hard to be in the 
field all day. I’m sorry.” 

“Being sorry don’t do any good,” he broke in. “Being 
sorry—what is that? I’m sorry too—I’m sorry for a lot 
of things, but that don’t do any good.” 

“Oh, Willard,” she protested, “the children-” 

He came closer, put out his blackened hands, slid his 
arm about her waist. “You don’t want to come near me, 
but you shall, just the same.” The anger which had 
been burning in his heart all day as he came and went 
within the sight of Alec McLean now forced itself 
flaming before all who saw. “I’ll show you.” He held 
her in his arms, crushed her to him in a fierce embrace 


54 


THE LAKE 


against his body, grimed with dust and acrid smelling; 
he rubbed his rough smeared face against her cheek, 
aching to defile its white cool smoothness, straining to 
mortify her flesh with the contact of his earthly frame. 

Her eyes closed. Her head was held back, away from 
him, her body stiffened, her muscles rigid with abhor¬ 
rence. The flowers which she held fell in a tumbled heap 
beside the path. He pushed her off, so that she stag¬ 
gered and almost fell. The two young people stood spell¬ 
bound, half comprehending. Shuddering, Averil steadied 
herself, her eyelids drooping, her teeth gritted in disgust 
and humiliation. Faraday, his head bowed, his shoul¬ 
ders slumped, was striding rapidly away toward the 
house. 

Hubert took hold of his mother’s sleeve. His eyes 
were still bewildered with what he had beheld. “Did 
he hurt you, ma?” he asked anxiously. He had not 
understood, before, that caresses could ever hurt. “Why 
did he do that? Why?” 

“No, no. I’m all right,” said Averil. She could not 
answer the second of his questions. 

Caddie, distressed and shaken, stood by, not knowing 
what to say. “I think I’ll have to go,” she stammered 
at last. 

“Bertie and I will walk along with you. You can’t 
go home alone.” Averil was glad of an excuse to get 
away from the house, to recover her self-possession, and 
to give Willard a chance to recover his. He had had 
his supper at McLean’s, and so she did not have to go 
in and prepare a meal for him. “Run and tell your 
father where we’re going,” she said. 

Hubert, obviously hesitating, ran after Willard, who 
had disappeared into the shed. He heard the splashing 


THE LAKE 55 

of water, and did not venture in. “Pa,” he called, “we’re 
walking home with Caddie.” 

“All right,” the gruff voice responded. 

Hubert ran back. Averil had gathered up her flowers. 
“We’ll put them into the edge of the lake till we come 
back,” she said. She did not want to go into the house, 
much less into the summer kitchen, where Willard was 
bathing. She wondered why he had not gone to a 
secluded place along the shore, for a dip into the cool 
water, after his day’s work. “I suppose he’s too tired,” 
she said to herself. 

They walked along the road to the arm of the lake, 
and Hubert put the stems of the flowers in, and weighted 
them with a stone. It was a good half-mile, perhaps 
three-quarters, to the Hunt home, and they walked 
slowly. The children found something to say, though 
the odd scared look had not left Caddie’s face. Averil 
could not bring herself to talk. What was there to say? 
She shuddered, her throat aching. 

In sight of the house, she turned back. “We’ll watch 
till you get home,” she said to the girl. “It’s too late 
to go in.” Caddie discerned that Mrs. Faraday did not 
want to talk even to the amiable Libbie Hunt. 

Averil and Bert walked home without much speech. 
Bert felt a vague protecting instinct, as 1 if he wanted to 
do something for his mother. And yet he felt uneasy 
too, with a misty antagonism which was a kind of 
wonder whether, after all, she had not treated his father 
badly. He could see for himself that she had not wanted 
the man to touch her. He didn’t blame her for that; 
but it was true, as his father had said, that there was 
no fun in being in the field all day. A person didn’t do 
it just to get dirty and annoy other people who could 


56 


THE LAKE 


sit around in clean clothes. The boy felt the confusion 
which comes to the young when their sense of justice 
begins to war with their instincts and affections. 

Averil walked with dragging footsteps along the road 
in the cool dusk. Her situation was becoming intoler¬ 
able. There had been times before, when things had been 
bad, but they had blown over, and there had been long 
periods of safety and quietness. But now they were 
getting worse and worse. Perhaps it was because Bert 
was getting older, and was inevitably forced into Wil¬ 
lard's thoughts and attention. 

When they got home, there was a yellow square of 
light in Willard's window upstairs, and another at the 
dining-room window. The lamp was lighted, and set 
in, the middle of the blue-checked cloth. In the kitchen 
were dark wet spots upon the floor, where the man had 
splashed the water from his bath. A wet towel lay 
soggy on the floor, and soiled garments were in a pile 
on a chair. Willard had hurried with his evening's work 
and gone to bed. The pail of milk, unstrained, stood on 
the table, its faint odour perceptible in the still air. 

Averil was glad that she did not have to face her 
husband again that night. She strained the milk and put 
it away; and set out the dishes for breakfast. Hubert, 
yawning and stretching, was suddenly so tired that he 
forgot everything else, and called out drowsily, “I'm 
going to bed." 

“That's right," said his mother. “I’ll shut up the 
house." With relief in her heart, she heard him climbing 
the stairs. She wanted to be alone. 

She locked up the back of the house, and turned down 
the lamp in the dining-room. Then she went and sat 
on the front steps, overlooking the lake. The night was 


THE LAKE 


57 


dark now, with only stars and fireflies to mitigate its 
gloom. The heavy dew of summer lay along the grass. 
The lake, a shade lighter than the shadows around it, 
showed dimly under the cloudy blue-black of the sky. 

Her crossed arms on her knees, Averil leaned forward 
into the night, her mind plumbing the depths of her 
distress. Never, it seemed, had it been so hard to bear 
as now. Of cpurse, there had been times when she had 
felt the same yielding to despair. But now there was 
added to it the thought of Hubert and his growing up, 
and the strangeness of his place between her and Willard. 
For a moment, the thought of death crossed her mind— 
the ease with which she might, here and now, slip away 
into the darkness of the water. It was one solution, 
perhaps the only logical one; but on the instant she knew 
that she had not the courage to take it. She loved 
Bertie too well, loved life itself too well, in spite of her 
grief and suffering. 

She rose, took a step forward, and looked up at the 
window in Willard’s room, facing the lake. It was black, 
and the boughs of trees hung over it. Probably he was 
asleep. He had had a hard day, and would now be 
sodden with the stupor of the worker-in-the-fields, after 
the cessation of toil. Averil remembered how he had 
lain like a stone beside her in the earlier years, while 
she lay watching the moonlight crawling up the wall, 
and hearing the whippoorwills and owls at their liquid 
or gutteral crying. 

She was glad that he was asleep. He seemed so much 
farther removed from her existence, which lay so near 
to his, yet never intermingled. She felt, too, the relief 
for him which would come with the suspending of his 
pain in slumber. Even she began to feel a measure of the 


58 


THE LAKE 


peace of night. She could not go to bed. It was not 
late, except as counted by the standards of weary coun¬ 
try drudges. 

Waveringly she slipped along the edge of the porch, 
and then walked about in the grass on the side of the 
house farthest from Willard’s room. The grass was cool 
and grateful to her feet. She felt impelled to get away 
from that room, the man in it, the house enclosing them. 
Noiselessly, dark as the shadowed bushes, she went down 
the lane toward the road. If she might only run, run 
far, and never turn back to the hard rigours of her 
servitude! But she must not go beyond the gate which 
barred her homej from the highway. 

She approached the gate. A dark form stood beside 
it. Starting, tremulous, with fear, she gasped, stood 
rooted. Of all her fears the greatest was that the man 
standing there should not be the one desired. 

“Averil.” A whisper came, almost undiscerned. 

“Alec.” She slid forward, noiseless as a leaf. 

“Did you know I was here?” 

“No. I never dreamed. I just came down because I 
couldn’t stay there—couldn’t sit still. Oh, Alec, you 
must go. Don’t stay—don’t stay. It isn’t right. It 
isn’t safe.” 

But her hand felt for his in the dark, clutched, 
trembled in his palm. 

“Averil, are you suffering?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is it worse?” 

“Oh, yes. It’s hard, so hard, Alec.” 

He put his face down on her hair. His clean crisp 
linen rasped along her neck. The barred gate lay be¬ 
tween them. “What can I do for you, my darling?” 


THE LAKE 


59 


“Nothing, nothing, nothing. Only go.” 

“In a minute.” Still he held her there. 

“How do you come here?” 

“I was bathing in the lake. I came over to see—well, 
just to see the house. I hardly hoped you’d be here. 
I’ve stood here a dozen times this summer, and you 
never came.” 

“It isn’t safe. Don’t do it again—ever.” 

“I know. It won’t do. I’ll be going.” He loosed her 
hands, and she drew back. But again he leaned over 
the low gate, reaching for her. She was glad of the gate 
between them. “I’m coming over next week for the 
harvesting,” he said. “You’ll see me then?” 

“Oh, no, no! Oh, Alec, don’t do anything that wouldn’t 
be safe,” she pleaded. “We must stop it all. We’ve got 
on sometimes for months—a year—without being any¬ 
thing but friends. We must go on now—always; on 
Bertie’s account, on everybody’s account.” She was 
scared, trembling. 

He assented. “Yes, I know. It’s best. This is the 
end. But kiss me, Averil.” 

“No.” 

“Not any more?” 

“No. Good-bye.” She tore herself away from the 
gate, stumbled backward out of reach of his hands. 

“Good-bye.” 

She turned and ran back to the house. Tears were wet 
on her face. Panting and unnerved, she sat down on the 
steps, listening. Alec had not followed her. She thought 
she heard someone in the house, a foot on stair or floor. 
But again, everything was quiet, with the background 
of night noises: the peeping of hylases in the mud, the 
lapping of waves, the rustle of tiny furred feet, the dis- 


60 


THE LAKE 


tant chattering of raccoons. Averil took a long breath, 
dried her eyes upon her sleeve, relaxed, sagged against 
a post. She was safe. She could sit a little longer, 
thinking of Alec, counting each step as he walked home 
in the summer night, under the beneficent protection of 
the dark. 

******* 

After Averil and Hubert left her, Caddie Hunt ran 
home, and dashed into the house through the side door 
opening into the dining-room. Her mother was undress¬ 
ing John-Benjy in the kitchen. She looked up, un¬ 
buttoning his underwaist. “Well, did you have a nice 
time?” she asked. 

“Yes, we had a perfectly grand picnic,” Caddie replied, 
out of breath. “We had awfully good things to eat, 
and we sat around and didn’t come away till we got 
ready.” 

“Mrs. Faraday came home with you, didn’t she?” said 
Libbie, her forehead puckered. “You didn’t walk home 
alone?” 

“No. She and Bert came with me. Has Benjy been 
a good boy?” Caddie stooped to kiss the youngster, 
rumpling his yellow hair. The light from the kerosene 
lamp fell on her face, and showed the odd look there. 

“Yes, a fine boy. What is it, Carraline?” asked her 
mother. 

Caddie hesitated, holding her hat in her hand, and 
fumbling with the glass beads at her neck. “Mr. Fara¬ 
day came home while I was there,” she said. “He acted 
awfully funny.” 

“How was that?” Libbie reached for the little boy’s 


THE LAKE 61 

nightgown. She had her own views about Willard and 
Averil Faraday. 

“Well, he came home from Mr. McLean's—you know 
he'd been changing works—and he’d been in the field, 
of course, and he was terribly dirty. It doesn’t seem 
a3 if he had to get as dirty as that, do you think, 
mother?" 

“Why, I don’t know," answered Libbie judicially. 
“Harvesting is hard work, and it was warm to-day." 

“Yes, I know," said Caddie. “Well, anyhow, he came, 
and he walked up close to Mrs. Faraday, and she kind 
of scrooched back, because he was so—so sweaty, you 
know; and she looked sort of sick; and he just put his 
arms around her and hugged her up tight to him like 
a bear, mother, or—or something horrid, and she pushed 
him off, and he talked real loud to her, and said queer 
things." 

Libbie’s usually placid face was disturbed. “What 
sort of things?" she asked, cuddling Benjy. 

“Oh, I can’t remember; something about working to 
get money for her and her boy. That doesn’t sound so 
bad, does it? Well, I can’t think just what he said, but 
it sounded bad when he said it. He seemed horribly mad 
about something—and yet he was hugging her like that. 
It was funny, wasn’t it, mother?" 

“I suppose he was tired," Libbie replied equably. Her 
face did not betray her surmises. 

“It was kind of—horrid," said Caddie, repeating the 
only word which seemed to describe the scene of which 
she had been an unwilling witness. “It was sort of queer, 
anyhow. I’ll take Brother-Boy up to bed. I suppose 
you’ve been working every minute." 


62 


THE LAKE 


“No, I rested quite a lot,” sighed Elizabeth. “But I 
got the eggs all packed, so that I can take ’em into town 
to-morrow, or send ’em by Alec McLean, if we see him 
going by; and I got the last of the carrots weeded. It 
does seem as if that pusley and quack-grass grow like 
magic.” 

After Caddie had gone upstairs, Libbie picked up the 
child’s clothes and put them away, and tidied the sink 
where she had given him his hasty bath. She sighed 
again, thinking of Averil Faraday. Libbie had a heart 
of compassion for women. “She has a pretty hard time, 
I imagine,” she said half aloud. “There’s something 
wrong there. I hate to think so, but how can I help it? 
I’ll go over and see her to-morrow. If she’s lonesome, 
she’ll be glad to see even me. And if the time comes 
when she needs somebody, I don’t want her to feel that 
there’s nobody to do anything for her.” 

The next afternoon, she packed the eggs into' the back 
of the buggy, and hitched up the horse. Caddie and the 
boy were going with her. She did not like to leave them 
alone. “We’ll stop at Mrs. Faraday’s first, and then go 
on to the village,” she said. “We may be in a hurry, 
coming back, and not have time to stop.” 

She hitched the horses down at the gate, and did not 
drive up through the lane. Averil was sitting on the 
front porch, sewing at some shirts for Bertie. She rose, 
looking pleased, as the trio approached. “I’m so glad 
to see you,” she said. “I was feeling lonesome. Willard 
is helping Alec with the last of his rye, to-day, you 
know.” 

“I just thought I’d come in and say howdy-do,” said 
Libbie, sinking upon the settle. “Is Bert here?” 

“Oh, yes, he’s around somewhere. Come, Benjy, come 


THE LAKE 


63 


and see me.” Averil took the child on her lap, pressing 
him to her with a caressing motion. But presently Cad¬ 
die took the little boy and went to find Hubert, who was 
somewhere in the region of the barn. 

“We don’t see each other very often,” said Libbie, 
when she and her hostess were alone. “It don’t seem 
just right, when we’re such near neighbours—or near for 
the country, anyhow.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” answered Averil, her face losing its 
immobility. “I like to have a woman come in. It seems 
so sort of comfortable. But all the women are so busy 
in the summer with harvesters and preserves, and all 
the children at home, and everything, they don’t get 
away very much.” She did not add that those who 
could get away did not always stop to see her. 

“I believe that we should be more neighbourly, all of 
us,” said Libbie, wiping her face, red with the heat. 
“Women need all the company and help they can get 
from each other, don’t you think so, Averil?” 

“Yes, I do,” said the younger woman, her hands mov¬ 
ing nervously across the sewing in her lap. “I know 
that’s so. Lots of times they need something—need 
comforting or encouragement (I don’t just mean actual 
help with what they’re doing), and they don’t know 
which way to turn.” 

“Yes, I know how that is,” replied Libbie Hunt. 

Each woman sat silently looking across the bright 
flat surface of the lake, each one reviewing the secrets 
of her own heart, touching the sore places that needed 
comforting. Each was tempted to tell her secrets to the 
other, but each refrained. Each was sorry for the other, 
but dared not make mention of her reasons, lest she 
appear prying or bold. And so they both sat wordless 


64 


THE LAKE 


for a space, shut up in the tight compartments of in¬ 
dividual experience and fear. 

“Have you done much canning?” asked Averil at last, 
finding a safe subject for talk. Fifteen minutes passed 
in an exchange of achievement and method in canning 
green vegetables for winter use. “I’ll get some cookies 
for the children,” said Averil, going inside the house. 
Whoops sounded, after an interval during which the 
cookies had been dispensed. Averil came back with 
oatmeal cookies and strawberry shrub, on a tray. The 
two women ate and drank together. 

When Libbie rose to go, Averil took both her hands 
in her own. “I know that you are there , right within 
call, even if I don’t see you every day,” she said. 

“If you need me, you’ll call on me, won’t you?” said 
Libbie wistfully. She wanted to do something for 
Averil, but she did not know what. 

“Yes, I will. I surely will,” responded the other. “Of 
course, I can’t imagine anything in particular that could 
happen,” she added, perhaps to reassure herself. 

“No, of course not,” Elizabeth assented cheerfully. 
“But one never knows-” 

“Come in again—come often,” urged Averil. 

Libbie Hunt went to call Caddie and Benjy, and they 
all drove away in the hot sun, Averil waving at them 
from the gate. She felt comforted, and her soreness of 
heart had grown less, for the moment at least. And 
Libbie, widowed and yet not widowed, felt that after 
all these years of being neighbours, she and Averil had 
come closer to each other than ever before, bound by a 
common need, actual and apprehended. 



CHAPTER IV 


During the summer, Averil seldom went to the village. 
It was a mile and a half away—too far to be reached 
by walking, in hot weather. Willard was busy and did 
not want to lose time for himself and the horses; he 
could not stop his work to take her to town. Once a 
week, usually on Wednesday, after his work was done, 
he hitched up the weary horses, and rode to the village 
to buy groceries. Averil and Hubert sometimes went 
with him, when he was good-humoured enough to ask 
them. Hubert loved going. His life was so restricted— 
revolving in the little circle of country which enclosed 
his own home and Uncle Alec’s and the homes of the 
few neighbours, that even going into the village was 
worth while. 

There was the one main street, with its half-dozen 
business buildings and a scanty group of dwelling houses. 
There was the blacksmith shop which even at that date 
was showing signs of aspiring to be a Ford repair sta¬ 
tion; a mill where feed for horses and cattle was still 
ground, though flour was no longer its glory; and a gen¬ 
eral store, where a medley of goods was displayed, and 
where country and village folk met and renewed their 
acquaintance from week to week. 

Hubert would linger as long as he could on the steps 
of the store, where other boys stood grinning and dis¬ 
playing their purchases. Sometimes he had money him- 
65 


66 


THE LAKE 


self; and if he had none, his father would buy him candy 
or gum or peanuts, or a red necktie. When Averil came, 
she usually sat in the buggy, while Willard did the buy¬ 
ing. She would not chaffer as the other women did, over 
their butter and eggs. She felt better to sit and let them 
talk to her from the broad step of the store. It pleased 
her perhaps to feel a sense of reserve, even at the cost 
of being spoken of afterward as uppish; possibly, too, 
there was a shyness in her which dreaded the prospect 
of pushing herself in where she might not be approved. 

The church, a stunted replica of the white New Eng¬ 
land church which the founders of the village had 
remembered, stood on a hill beyond the short main street. 
It was a Presbyterian church, in which all Protestant 
creeds united. 

The Faradays went to church intermittently and gave 
something twice a year for the support of the minister. 
He was usually either a young theological student getting 
experience and a stipend with which to nourish a too- 
hastily-acquired wife and family; or an elderly failure 
on the point of superannuation, shunted here to ease the 
conscience of the Presbytery and to mitigate his panic 
in the face of an impecunious old age. Church meant 
little to the Faradays, and at that probably as much as 
it meant to the other people within the district. Averil 
felt a deep desire for religion, and reproached herself for 
not bringing Hubert up in a more godly way. 

In recognition of the sum which Willard grudgingly 
gave toward his salary, the minister called to see the 
Faradays once or twice a year. A day or two after 
Libbie Hunt’s call upon her, Averil was startled and 
somewhat annoyed to see the ministerial equipage 
approaching and turning in at the lane. The minister, 


THE LAKE 


67 


Mr. Sutton, tied his horse and came walking up through 
the yard. He was a young man, wearing an ill-fitting 
blue serge suit, and a cheap straw hat. He held his 
shoulders jauntily, yet did not forget the dignity which 
his position demanded. Averil ran to take off her apron, 
and to plump up the cushions on the sofa in the front 
room. 

The minister came in with assurance, his undistin¬ 
guished face bearing the smile of his profession. Big 
teeth, freckles, and outstanding ears gave him an unpre¬ 
possessing appearance, for which he was not to blame. 
The preliminaries of greeting and comment upon the 
weather completed, he proceeded to the business of his 
call—offering the privileges of religion to his parishioners. 

“I don’t see you and your family at church very 
often,” he began. 

“No,” said Averil reluctantly, “I don’t suppose you do. 
We can’t always go.” 

“It’s a serious thing to neglect the means of grace,” 
said the young man. 

“Maybe,” answered Averil doubtfully. “But Willard 
works hard all the week, and so do I. It seems good to 
get a little rest on Sunday, and it’s hard to dress up and 
go out on a hot day-” 

“The weather should make no difference in our love 
of our religion,” the man returned. 

“N-no,” assented Averil; “but I don’t know as I love 
it very much. If I did, I mighty be more anxious to go.” 

A red flag of anger showed in the cheek of the young 
minister. “It is sin that keeps a person from loving it,” 
he retorted. 

Averil flushed, too. “Maybe,” she said again. “But 
I can’t help it if I don’t.” 


68 THE LAKE 

“God hates sinners,” burst out the young man 
vehemently. 

Averil felt a surge of reprehension. “I thought there 
was something about love in the Bible,” she said with 
unexpected audacity. “I mean the love of God,” she 
amended, seeing the incipient offense on the face before 
her. 

“God can’t love sinners,” he responded, shocked and 
indignant. 

“I don’t see that that’s very much help,” said Averil 
miserably. She could not for the moment keep her lips 
from shaking. 

“The only help is to turn from sinful ways,” cried the 
man with solemnity. He had nothing to offer except the 
stock phrases of his vocation. He was not by nature 
unkind; but he was a very ignorant young man, who 
took himself with all seriousness, and had been taught 
that he was called to rebuke sinners. 

“I don’t understand what you mean by that sort of a 
hating-God,” said Averil. “I need religion—we all need 
it—but I don’t get much good out of the kind that 
they give us in church.” 

The man was angered as by a personal attack. “It’s 
because your heart is hardened,” he returned, his voice 
getting louder. The Adam’s-apple was working in his 
throat. 

“I don’t believe in a God like that,” Averil heard her¬ 
self saying. “I don’t believe that God ever put us in a 
hard place, and then punished us for being there.” 

The minister stared at her, his jaw falling. “Beware!” 
he shouted. “Beware how you insult* the Almighty with 
atheism!” 


THE LAKE 69 

“I—I didn’t mean it for atheism.” Averil was hor¬ 
rified at the imputation. “I’m not an atheist.” 

“You’re an unconverted woman,” the young man flung 
out at her. 

Averil felt the futility of the argument, though she 
did not know how many times tired humanity had gone 
over it, in the hope of understanding and consolation. 
She felt the hopelessness of any interpretation of her 
emotions by this man, calling himself a minister of the 
gospel. She saw, although she could not have put her 
knowledge into words, that he had no. content of experi¬ 
ence in his soul, no comprehension of human struggles, 
no toleration for views not taught in the sectarian school 
where he had received his meagre education. He was 
undertaking the fine task of reconciling man to God, 
with only his ignorant and self-satisfied good intentions 
as the instrument for his achieving. 

“Oh, I can’t talk about it,” said Averil suddenly. 

“May the Lord soften your heart.” The young man 
rose to go, glad of the opportunity of escape. He was 
baffled before this woman, to him enigmatic, with her 
white smooth face, her black coronet of hair, her rebel¬ 
lion against his constituted authority. He was used to 
having people listen with respect and take his statements 
and admonition without question. Averil’s few words, 
mild and tentative as they were, aroused in him a sus¬ 
picion of his own wisdom, even of his own authority, 
which he tried to conceal from himself by condemna¬ 
tion. 

To moderate the embarrassment of his departure, 
Averil made inquiries concerning his wife and child, and 
he in his turn assumed an interest in the health of 


70 


THE LAKE 


Willard and Hubert. They were well, Averil said; but 
she was thinking how ill they were in their relation to 
each other. 

When Mr. Sutton had gone, Averil sat down and cried, 
at the folly and hopelessness of what had taken place. 
She was sorry and ashamed, when she thought of what 
she had said; yet she did not see how she could honestly 
have said anything else. 

She got up and took the Bible from its place on the 
table, and opened it. Surely there was something there 
for her. The Bible, she had always heard, had been the 
consolation of suffering hearts in every age. She opened 
it and read, “Behold I come quickly.” What did that 
mean? Pondering, she shut the book and put it back on 
the table. What was the use? She knew that there was 
a treasure of wisdom in the volume, but she did not have 
the key. Her tears flowed down afresh. 

She saw Willard coming through the field and in at 
the back yard. He was dirty; his hands were smeared, 
his shoes covered with filth. “Who was here?” he asked 
curiously. 

“The minister,” she answered, trying not to be curt. 

“What did he say to you?” he queried, noting her wet 
eyes and fevered face. 

“Nothing that mattered,” she told him. “I wasn’t 
crying about that. He doesn’t know anything. He’s just 
silly,” she said weakly. 

“Women should go to church,” remarked Willard 
gravely. This was his conviction, as it is that of many 
men who do not care for religion themselves. 

“What’s the use?”' said Averil, more to herself than to 
him. “A man like that doesn’t know anything about life 
or what people want to hear.” 


THE LAKE 


71 


“They ought to hear things sometimes that they don’t 
want to hear,” said Willard shrewdly. 

“Well, he doesn’t know what they ought to hear, then,” 
answered his wife. “He doesn’t know anything ” 

“You must think you’re pretty smart,” responded Wil¬ 
lard with asperity, “criticizing the minister like that.” 

“You don’t think much of him yourself,” Averil gave 
answer. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say that he don’t know what’s what 
in religion,” said Willard. It was true that he had more 
than once said that he didn’t think much of the young 
sprig; and yet it was another thing to condone the effront¬ 
ery of a woman in making light of a preacher, whoever 
he was. Sutton was a poor stick of a fellow in some 
ways, but he had ten times as much education as Averil 
had. And what did she know about life, that she was so 
bold to say what Sutton didn’t know? This was a ques¬ 
tion which would bear consideration. 

Willard went back to his work, brooding. Averil wept 
again at the uselessness of seeking consolation in religion. 

******* 

Bert was balancing himself on the gate at the foot 
of the lane, when Uncle Alec came along in his buck- 
board. The truth was that Bert had seen Uncle Alec 
go by on his way to the village, an hour before, and was 
watching for him to come back. 

Alec pulled up his horses. “Hullo!” he called. “Jump 
in and ride along.” 

Bert bounded over the gate and ran to the road. “I 
don’t know whether I dast,” he said, aching to climb into 
the buckboard, which sagged at the side with Uncle 
Alec’s weight. 


72 


THE LAKE 


“Well, then, run and tell your mother you're going." 

Averil frowned when she heard, but after a minute, 
she said, “All right. Go if you want to." 

He scudded away. He loved to go to Uncle Alec's. 
He climbed over the wheel, and settled down beside the 
warm bulk' of Alexander. 

“Coolish to-day," said the man. “Well, Bert, how 
are you? Fine, eh?" 

“Sure. I'm fine," answered the boy. 

“Find it pretty dull, with no school to go to, I sup¬ 
pose." The man cast a humourous grey eye at the little 
fellow beside him. “Just counting the days till you can 
go again, eh?" 

Hubert looked up out of the corner of his eye. “You 
bet," he said. “Just can't hardly wait. But it's quite 
a while yet." 

They both laughed. “Well, it won't hurt you to learn 
a little something,” said McLean. “There's an awful 
lot to learn." 

“Mm-huh," said Bert. “Say, Uncle Alec, I ain't cried, 
not really cried, since that day you told me' not to.” 

“I thought you hadn't," answered Alec, grinning; yet 
he was moved, too, as one could see who looked at his 
eyes. “I kind of had my lamps on you. I thought once 
or twice you came near it—say that night a little while 
ago, when I was at your house, and your—when Willard 
made you go to bed." 

“Oh, well," the boy replied, “crying when you're mad 
ain't quite the same as crying when your feelings are 
hurt, or when you're scared. Is it?" 

“Well, no. I don't suppose it is," Alexander conceded. 
“But it's better to sort of keep a grip on yourself in 
any case." 


THE LAKE 73 

“I s’pose it is,” said Hubert humbly. Then he added, 
“He gets awful mad,—pa does, don’t he?” 

“Yes, he does, sometimes,” Alexander admitted, clap¬ 
ping the back of his horse with thej reins. 

“Why does he do that?” the boy asked. 

“I guess he feels as if he had a pretty hard time,” Alec 
replied; “as if life had been sort of rough on him.” 

“Has it been?” asked Hubert. He had not thought 
of that. 

“I guess it has in some ways.” Alec had his eyes 
down, looking hard at the horse’s back. “But then, I 
don’t know as it’s been any harder on him than on some 
of the rest of us. It ain’t always easy, you know, kid. 
Things don’t always go just as you’d like to have ’em.” 

“N-no.” Bert thought that he had discovered that 
much about life. 

“There’s no use in getting mad about it,” said Alec. 
“But sometimes it seems as if we don’t use the sense we 
have.” 

“No,” said Hubert, 

They rode along, chatting now about the horses and 
the cattle that they passed. “Mart Hendricks says he’s 
going to have an automobile next spring,” said Alec. 
“I suppose I’ll have to be getting one, too.” 

“Oh! Oh!” It seemed a wonderful thing to talk about 
buying an automobile. 

Then they came in sight of Alec’s farm, with its bushy 
green potato fields, and its smooth pasture lands, where 
fat cows were feeding. Alec had begun dairying before 
the other farmers in the neighbourhood had realized that 
they could do better with cows than with wheat. 

There was the big nondescript house, painted a clean 
tan colour with brown trimmings. It looked well kept. 


74 


THE LAKE 


There were shrubs around the door, and vines over the 
porch. At some of the windows there were no curtains, 
only the stiff bought shades. A handsome collie dog 
came running to meet them, her beautiful intelligent face 
turned to her master with affection. Alec, getting out 
of the buckboard, ran his hand along her head with low 
words of welcome. “Good girl! Glad to see us, eh?” 
Hubert loved Meggie. He threw his arms around her 
neck. 

They went into the house, through the kitchen. Mrs. 
Gundersen stood at the stove, stirring* something. Sweet 
smells were in the air. “How do?” The old lady smiled 
and nodded to the boy. 

“I thought I'd bring the lad home with me.” Alec 
laid a hand caressingly along the boy's shoulder. “He'll 
be here for dinner.” 

“Yes, yes.” The old lady ran to get a plate, a knife 
and fork. The table was already set in the dining-room. 
After the two men had washed their hands, it was time 
to sit down. There was Danish steak, with thick deli¬ 
cious brown gravy and onions. And later there was 
apple-cake, made of toasted breadcrumbs fried in butter, 
and mixed with sweet apple sauce and whipped cream: 
another Danish dish. “Pretty fine, eh?” commented 
Alec. “Here, take some more.” It seemed to Bert as 
if he could never get enough. 

“It's bully,” said the boy, proud of using this grown¬ 
up expression. 

After dinner they went into the sitting-room, a man's 
room, with an old desk-secretary, a leather couch, a 
book case, and pictures of horses and dogs. Upon the 
wall, near the book case, an old-fashioned frame of dark 
wood was hanging, and within the oval was a woman's 


THE LAKE 


75 


face with curls at the temples, a pleasant face, yet a 
strong one, too. Hubert had seen it there before, but 
he had never thought about it. He would not have 
thought of it now, if Alec had not gone over and looked 
at it. Then, as if moved by an impulse, he took it down 
and wiped the dust from it with his sleeve. “That’s a 
picture of my mother, Bert,” he said. 

Bert took it awkwardly in his hand. He did not know 
what to say, and so he only made a mumble for reply. 
He held the picture before him, and examined it in an 
embarrassed way. It really made no impression on him, 
and he could not have told what the woman looked like. 
“She’s dead—a long time ago,” said Alec. 

“She looks nice,” muttered Bert, to say something. 

“Hm.” Alec took the picture and held it up and looked 
at it, then from it down to the boy’s face, then back at 
the picture, then at the boy. His face was grave. He 
bit his lip thoughtfully, and turned away without saying 
anything. He hung the picture back in its place, and 
Bert felt relieved. He thought pictures rather silly 
things, and had never paid much attention to them. 
One of the boys at school had a camera, and it was sort 
of fun to have your picture taken while you were swing¬ 
ing, or leading the calf; but this having people’s faces 
hanging on the wall, especially if they were dead people, 
was foolish. Hubert tried to think of Uncle Alec’s 
mother as down in the ground and up in the sky at the 
same time; but he was not able to think of her as having 
any existence at all. She meant merely nothing. He 
was more interested in the old gun hanging on the wall, 
which had been Uncle Alec’s grandfather’s. That had 
more sense in it, Hubert thought. 

Uncle Alec laughed when he saw the boy looking at 


76 


THE LAKE 


it; and showed him the gun again, and how it worked, 
and how the powder-horn worked, too, that hung beside 
it. Hubert liked to look ati Uncle Alec’s bead-work that 
the Indians had made, and a Chinese knife, that had 
belonged to some of the sailor McLeans, and other odd 
things, in boxes and on shelves. There was a feeling 
of being at home here, in spite of the fact that the sounds 
of house-work were Mrs. Gundersen’s, and not his 
mother’s. 

“Do you like this house?” asked Alec. 

“Yes. It’s nicer than ours,” answered Bert. 

“Do you want to see it all?” 

“Oh, yes, I’d like to.” Hubert liked to peep into the 
rooms which were not in use. 

On the ground floor, in a wing which was kept closed, 
there was a large room with a bedroom adjoining. In 
the two rooms were pieces of furniture, better than 
those in the rest of the house. They were of old dark 
mahogany. One or two of them were still in crates, in 
which they had arrived from New York State, after 
Alec’s mother’s death. The paper and the burlap had 
been pulled away in places, and a little sewing table with 
carved legs could be seen, and a desk with brass handles. 
There were barrels, too, which Alec said held dishes. 

Upstairs was Alec’s bedroom, with a big old-fashioned 
walnut bed, and a chest of drawers and a large looking 
glass; a wardrobe, a chair or two, and a table. The old 
lady’s room was in the other part of the house, over the 
kitchen. There were other rooms which Hubert could 
look into, rooms partly furnished, or merely set out with 
crated pieces. 

“What have you got all those for?” asked the boy. 


THE LAKE 


77 


“I hardly know,” said Alec. “Those things belonged 
to my mother, and after she died, I hated to have ’em 
sold or lost, and so I’ve got ’em here. But God knows 
whether I’ll ever use ’em or not.” Hubert thought that 
a strange way to speak—as if furniture were so important 
that one might speak of God in connection with it; but 
the thought soon passed out of his mind. 

They went on into the little room over the hall, at 
the front of the house. There were piles of old magazines 
in it, and old papers and books. There was an old sec¬ 
retary-on-legs there, too, a shabby piece, with its pigeon 
holes stuffed full of letters and papers. It all seemed 
mysterious and fascinating. 

They went downstairs, and out to the bams. Bert 
walked close to Alec, and sometimes held his sleeve, or 
felt the man’s hand on his arm or his shoulder. He was 
always at ease with Uncle Alec. He was never afraid 
that he would take a dislike to him and push him aside, 
or speak to him in a hard stiff way, as if the words were 
pulled out of him by wires. With his father, there was 
never any assurance of what would happen next. He 
would be all right for a day or two, and then he would 
be rough and almost savage. Sometimes he took Hubert 
by the arm and held him so tightly that the boy squirmed 
with pain; and once he had looked into his face in a 
wild way, as if he were trying to see something there. 
That was out in the field, and Bert had not wanted to 
go out with him after that. But with Uncle Alec you 
knew what to expect. He was always kind, with a warm 
teasing sort of manner, or else he was sober and didn’t 
seem to hear what you said, but at such times he was 
kinder than ever. 


78 


THE LAKE 


Bert was sorry when Alec said, “Well, I suppose your 
mother’ll be wondering what’s become of you. I’ll drive 
you home, and then I’ll have to get to work.” 

The boy climbed out of the buckboard at the foot of 
the lane, and stood watching Alec till he was out of 
sight on the way to his farm again. Then Hubert walked 
slowly up to the house beside the lake, with the feeling 
that he had had a rather thrilling adventure. 

******* 

The next Monday, Alec was to come over and help 
Willard. There would be only two days of work, because 
Willard had not much grain, since his larger crops were 
maize and potatoes. 

The day was lowering, and there was haste to get 
the work done; lest a storm should break. The two men 
came in at noon, silent and absorbed. Averil furtively 
studied Alec, with his fresh youngish face, tumbled 
brown hair which work only disordered, mouth always 
laughing while his eyes were grim; and Willard, with 
his black hair plastered down flat along his forehead, his 
eyes hollow, his lips tense. Alec had put on a clean blue 
denim jacket when he came to the table. Willard ate 
with his soiled shirt sticking close to his skin with 
sweat. 

At supper Alec said, with his casual laugh, “If you 
can put me up here, I don’t believe I’ll go home. Nothing 
to go home for, you know—a bachelor like me. Bert 
wants me to go swimming with him.” 

Averil’s heart gave a leap, but she was calmly pouring 
more tea for Willard. His hand, holding the cup toward 
her, jerked and splashed the hot tea. “Why, I guess we 
can, all right,” he said. 


THE LAKE 


79 


“We’d get a good start in the morning, that way,” 
said Alec; “and Bert and I could have our swim.” 

“You can sleep downstairs,” said Averil. There was 
a bedroom across the hall from the “front room,” facing 
the lake. It was beneath the room which Willard occu¬ 
pied. “If you have both windows open, you can keep 
cool.” 

“Oh, I’ll be all right,” said Alec. It was bold of him, 
thought Averil, to propose staying. But it was the 
natural thing to do, after all. Any neighbour, changing 
works, would have done it, if he were a bachelor, and 
had nothing to go home to but an old Danish house¬ 
keeper. 

Alec and the boy went off with towels, for their swim, 
out beyond the hemlocks and the graveyard, to the point 
where they had had the picnic, the other day. There 
was a small beach there, with smooth pebbles and white 
sand, where the water gradually deepened, and did not 
shoot off into unfathomable depths, as it did in most 
places around the lake. Averil put away the supper 
things, and thought of the two, man and boy, plunging 
and gliding in the coolness, their bodies showing through 
the dusky water. 

They came back in the twilight, laughing and taunting 
each other. Averil, spreading clean sheets in the down¬ 
stairs bedroom, heard the voice of Alec, deep and quiet 
and vibrating, the voice of the boy, merry and teasing 
and shrill. “How happy they are together,” she thought. 
“If only-” 

“I’ll teach you another stroke, the next time,” Alec 
was saying. 

They all sat for a while on the porch in the dark, 
Alec smoking and saying little. Averil had food to pre- 


80 


THE LAKE 


pare for the early breakfast, and she could not stay. 
Hubert went off to bed, and the two men sat with inter¬ 
mittent talk. 

Averil came back. “Bed-time,” she said. “I’m going. 
You men can stay up as long as you like.” 

“I’m turning in before long,” answered Alec. “I must 
finish my cigar.” 

Willard did not go till Averil was shut in her room. 
Then she heard the sound of his going to his room, and 
the thud of his heavy shoes on the floor. Listening, she 
heard Alexander walking on the porch, and then heard 
him going to the bedroom under Willard’s. Silence had 
settled on the house, except for the usual little tumult of 
the outdoor world, chirping and rustling, the tremolo 
of a flitting owl, the hooting of the night train four or 
five miles away. 

Averil was sleepless, thinking. Alexander lay down¬ 
stairs, only a few feet away from her, the wind blowing 
through the room, lifting the white curtain at the window 
beside his bed. Was he asleep? Of course he would be. 
He had worked hard, but not with the fury which pos¬ 
sessed Willard Faraday. Perhaps he was awake, think¬ 
ing of her under the same roof with him, thinking, 
thinking- 

The growl of thunder came, so faint at first as to be 
merely conjectural, then more palpable and stern. The 
wind grew threatening. Averil, recalling the open win¬ 
dows downstairs, sat up at the edge of her bed. Willard 
slept so heavily that he was not like to hear the signs 
of storm. Rain in the summer came from the south and 
west, and if windows were not shut, it would sweep in 
over floors and furnishings. She longed and yet dreaded 
to go to the floor below, where the other man lay sleep- 


THE LAKE 81 

ing. Surely he was sleeping the honest slumber of the 
harvester. 

She put her bare feet down, reaching for her cotton 
dressing-gown, threw back her hair. Silently she felt 
for the door, turned the knob, and stepped into the 
narrow black hall. Downstairs she went, in the dark, 
first to the kitchen. The window slid down quietly. In 
the dining-room, the wind was billowing the curtains, 
and blowing the edges of newspapers in a rack upon the 
wall. The windows came down. She turned to go into 
the front room or parlour. For a second she stood, clasp¬ 
ing her hands, wondering. If Alec should be awake— 
should hear- 

A sound made her start. A glare of light was turned 
upon her, so that she stood in a nimbus of yellow glow. 
Her heart jumped. She gave a low cry of amaze. Then 
she knew that a man was standing at the stair door, 
and reason came to tell her that the light was from 
Hubert’s flash, the birthday gift. “Willard—you?” she 
asked, trying to see the face that hovered above the 
glare. 

“What are you doing down here?” asked Willard, 
choking, furious. She saw that the light trembled and 
wavered in his hand. 

“Shutting the windows before it rains, of course,” she 
answered, keeping her voice down to a whisper. “What 
did you think I was doing?” 

“How could I know?” 

“You ought to know. Where did you get the flash?” 
she said. There was terror in her heart, but she kept 
her voice steady. 

“I had it in my room.” 

“Why did you have it there?” 


82 


THE LAKE 


“I thought I might need it.” 

“For what?” 

“It looked like rain. I thought I might have to get 
up and shut the windows.” 

“You know I always shut them.” 

They stood there, facing each other in the dim sur¬ 
rounding glow. There was no sound from the bedroom 
on the ground floor. Rain was beating on roof and 
windows. 

“Go on upstairs,” Willard commanded in a tone in¬ 
scrutable with rage or threat. 

Averil crept up the dark stairs, her hands shaking as 
they felt along the wall. Would he go into Alec’s room? 
Would he make a scene here in the middle of the night, 
a horrible accusing scene? Would he perhaps do some 
harm to Alec, rushing upon him in his bed, with cries 
and cursing and blows? How foolish she had been to 
go downstairs! She should have gone in and wakened 
Willard (he was, as it had proved, already awake), and 
asked him to go down and look after things. Or she 
should have let the rain pour in, sweep across the floors, 
flood the place, ruin everything. What difference would 
it have made, if this had been avoided? 

She listened, frozen, on the stairs, for clamorous sounds 
below. But she heard only the slamming down of the 
three windows in the front room. Then there was the 
sound of feet shuffling along the carpet and up the stairs. 
The flare of the 1 light struck up towards her as she stood 
on the landing. Still she could not see her husband’s 
face. She went into her room and shut the door. She 
had forgotten the windows in Hubert’s room, next her 
own. 

She stood in the middle of the room, her hands pinched 


THE LAKE 


83 


together like twisted vises. How unutterably crazy she 
had been! Had she in her own secret soul, hidden even 
from herself, hoped that Alec would be awake and up, 
looking after the windows, and that there would be one 
swift passing, lovely touch of hands and lips? She did 
not know. She could only be unspeakably glad that 
she had borne the full semblance of innocence, that the 
windows in the dining-room were down, that the door 
to the parlour was closed, that Alec had not blundered 
out of his room urged by the storm and the sounds which 
she had made in shutting out the rain. 

Willard was coming up the stairs, breathing hard. 
She waited for him to pass her door. But he had stopped. 
He had thrown the door open. The thunder had risen 
now to a low continuous rumble, and short flashes of 
lightning palpitated through the night. Willard could 
see her where she stood in the middle of the room. Will 
he kill me? she thought in sick distress. 

“Averil!” His voice had in it more of anguish than 
of anger. 

“Yes.” She was still shaking with her* fears. 

“I thought—I thought- 

“What could you think, Will?” she said. “The win¬ 
dows had to be shut, and you sleep so like a log, I didn’t 
think you’d wake to close them.” 

“Ah!” Suspicion leaped like fire in his voice. “You 
counted on my being asleep!” Then he added tri¬ 
umphantly, “I hadn’t been asleep. How would I dare 
to sleep?” 

“Dare?” Her own anger was flaring now. “Why not? 
What are you afraid of?” 

“Averil!” His voice sank again to the note of suffer¬ 
ing. “You know why.” 


84 


THE LAKE 


“But I don't, Willard.” 

He took hold of her in the dark. The thunder was 
crashing; and the lightning became, a beating continuous 
glare. His hot hands were on the cool flesh of her arms. 
A louder peal of thunder made him jump, but he tight¬ 
ened his hold upon her. “You know what I thought,” 
he said, with his face close to hers. “You know. You 
know. If it had been true, I would have killed you 
both.” 

“Will! You’re crazy,” she cried, twisting herself away 
from him. “You don’t know what you’re saying.” 

“Yes, I do. I know too well. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill 
you both, if I ever find out that it’s true.” 

She tried to answer him, but no sound came from her 
constricted throat. 

There was a more vivid flash of lightning, and then 
a cry from the door, “Mama, mama, I’m afraid!” 

Willard let go his wife’s arm. Averil called out 
soothingly to Hubert, “Yes, yes, I’m here, Bertie. It’s 
all right.” He ran to her. “We were up, shutting the 
windows,” she said. They had to raise their voices above 
the sound of the rain, pouring, hammering, thudding all 
around them. 

Bert ran to his mother, seizing her hand. “I thought 
somebody was going to kill you,” he said shrilly. He 
clung to her. The storm grew more vicious. It seemed 
for the moment as if the tempest might sweep away the 
house. 

“It’s all right,” shouted Averil, above the din. “Your 
father’s here. Nobody’s going to kill me.” She soothed 
the lad with her'hands, caressing his hair. “We’re all of 
us all right. I’ll light the lamp, and you must stay 
with me until the storm is over.” She struck a light. 


THE LAKE 


85 


“You needn't wait now, Willard," she said in the even 
tone of the wife speaking to the husband before their 
child. “You'd better go back to bed. Bert will stay 
with me until the worst of the storm is past. It’s letting 
up already." Bert had cuddled into her rocking chair, 
drawing his feet up under his nightgown. Willard stood 
dishevelled, his mouth unsteady, shaping words which 
did not come. He had laid down the flashlight before 
he entered the room, and his empty hands were making 
aimless motions. Bert gazed at him wonderingly. “Don’t 
wait, Willard," repeated Averil firmly, almost sharply. 
Willard turned and shuffled out of the room. 

******* 

Morning came, clear and unflecked. Averil heard 
Willard downstairs. She rose and dressed, and went 
down to prepare breakfast for the two men, though she 
knew they must wait till the dampness had dried some¬ 
what from the fields. 

She heard Alexander moving about in his room, and 
then on the front porch. Willard was out at the milk¬ 
ing. As she laid the table and skimmed the cream, she 
wished that Alec would come out to the kitchen before 
Willard came in. Perhaps he was purposely avoiding 
doing so, lest Willard should find them together. The 
smell of coffee pervaded the house. She was testing it 
in a cup when Alec came into the kitchen. His face 
was serious. He stood with his hands in his pockets, 
lounging against the door-jamb, in his deceptively care¬ 
free way. “What was going on last night?" he asked 
hurriedly. 

Averil looked up from her work. “I went down to 
shut the windows when it began to t rain," she said, “and 


86 THE LAKE 

Willard followed me with the flashlight that you gave 
to Bertie.” 

“I gathered something of the kind.” Alec looked at her 
meditatively. “You shouldn’t have done it. You were 
afraid that I’d do something that would make trouble, 
and now you’ve done about as bad a thing as you could 
yourself.” 

“It was foolish,” she confessed. “But I always do come 
down to see to the windows, and he sleeps so heavy.” 
Alexander was still silent, gazing at her as if he did not 
see her. “Alec,” she burst out, turning an appealing face 
to him, “won’t you go away?” 

“No.” His face settled to* grimness. “No, I won’t.” 

“But you’ve always wanted to. You wanted to go to 
sea, or something.” She twisted her fingers into the edge 
of her apron. 

He smiled ironically. “I’m too old now. I’m thirty- 
six. Folks don’t begin going to sea at that age.” 

“Well, but you might go somewhere. You’d like to 
travel. You could leave the farm for a while. You have 
plenty of money.” 

“I won’t go,” he repeated. “You might need me.” 

She shook her head. “Not as much as I need to have 
you go.” 

“I can’t,” he answered miserably. “I can’t run off and 
leave you to stand it alone.” She wanted to say that 
whatever happened she must stand it alone. There was 
no one, not even Alec, who could help. She remained 
quiet, passing from table to stove. “Averil”—his voice 
shook with sudden emotion—“can’t we take things into 
our own hands? Can’t we do something?” 

“No.” Her voice was low and broken. “He would 
never let us. I couldn’t get free. He hasn’t done any- 


THE LAKE 


87 


thing. He would kill us both before he would let me go 
free. You know we’vd talked about this so many times 
before.” 

“Yes.” His shoulders drooped. “Well, anyway, I’ll 

stay.” 

“I wish you’d go, Alec,” she returned. 

“No, you don’t.” 

He went back to the front porch and sat down. He 
was there when Willard came in from the milking. 
“Where’s Alec?” he asked, putting the pail on the table. 

“Out in front somewhere, I guess,” Averil answered in¬ 
differently. “You can go and see.” 

Willard sauntered around to the side of the house, 
where he could see Alec on the steps in a settled position, 
as if he had been there all the time. The two men spoke 
with the familiarity of long acquaintance. “Pretty bad 
storm,” Alec said, “but it went off fast.” 

“Yeah. D’you hear us putting down the windows?” 

“I heard something, but I was too sleepy to sense it. 
When it began to rain cats and dogs, I got up and put 
down the one in front.” 

“Good thing you could keep the other open. The rain 
don’t come in from that side.” 

“Too wet to work for a while, ain’t it?” 

“I guess it is.” 

They sat down to breakfast, talking about the grain. 
Averil marvelled at the ways of men, their easy pretense 
of companionship in the midst of suspicion and dislike. 

When they had gone, she heard Hubert coming down. 
She was glad that he had not been there at breakfast. 
It had been hard enough, without his innocent comments 
on what had happened in the night. 

Willard was becoming more difficult than he had ever 


88 


THE LAKE 


been before. He had never dared to say as much to her 
as he had said last night, under cover of the storm. He 
had never put his thoughts into words. Now that they 
were shaped, expressed, they seemed more dangerous 
than they had been when veiled by reticence. 

She was not really afraid of Willard’s violence, not, at 
least, when she was able to reason about it. She knew 
that it was unlikely that he would do anything rash, 
even though he were torn by anger and hate: because he 
loved her, because he was a kind man at heart. But 
those terrible fits of wrath—she shuddered. It was hard 
to say what he might do in one of them. If only Alec 
would go away, Willard would subside, quiet his own 
fears, be himself again. They would go on with their 
life. Empty perhaps it would be; but she had Hubert, 
and nobody could take him away. 

She would speak to Alec again about going; but then, 
she was pretty sure that he wouldn’t go. Back in the 
shadowy region of her own motives and desires, the 
region which in all of us is screened by self-deception, 
she knew that she could not bear to have Alec go, that 
she did not want him to go, that life would be more un¬ 
bearable than it was now, if he were gone out of the 
circle of her knowledge, and out of her reach. 


CHAPTER V 


Willard had been over to Libbie Hunt’s, to take her 
ten pounds of sugar, which he had bought for her in the 
village. She was canning, and had miscalculated her 
needs. 

“What do you think?” he said to Averil, as he came 
in through the kitchen. “Libbie Hunt has taken Daddy 
Gleason.” 

“Taken him?” answered Averill. “What do you mean? 
Has he gone to stay with her?” 

“Yes, that’s it,” said Willard. “He was sitting on the 
front porch, as happy as you please, and she followed 
me out to the gate and told me about it.” 

“Mira Prentice ’ll be as mad as hops,” commented 
Averil. 

“She is. She’s foaming at the mouth,” chuckled Wil¬ 
lard. He was one of many who had long-standing scores 
against Mira Prentice. “But she can’t do anything. The 
old man’s been sharp enough to hold on to what little 
money he’s got, and he can do just as he pleases.” 

Averil stood, dust-cloth in hand, listening and con¬ 
sidering. “Well, I’m as glad as I can be that he’s out of 
that place,” she said. “Mira thought she had him there 
for life. How did it happen? Do you know?” 

“Well, it seems that Libbie went over to Mira’s on 
some errand, I don’t know what, and Mira was talking 
89 


90 


THE LAKE 


up to the old man pretty sassy with that razor of a 
tongue that she’s got, and makin’ him eat something 
he didn’t like. And he looked so kind of neglected and 
half-starved, Libbie says, thatf she just couldn’t stand it. 
She up and says to him, ‘Well, Mr. Gleason, how’d you 
like to come an’ live at my house?’ And the old fellow 
jumped at the chance. She hadn’t more’n half meant it 
—just kind of spoke up without thinking—but when she 
saw how keen he was to go, she just bundled his traps 
into a suit case and a box or two, and carried him off, 
Mira flying at ’em like a settin’ hen.” 

“It takes Libbie Hunt to do a thing like that,” smiled 
Averil. “The rest of the neighbours have been pitying 
the old man for a year or two, and yet nobody had the 
courage to interfere. How in the world can she spend 
the time and money to take care of him?” 

“He’s been paying Mira two dollars a week,” said 
Willard. 

“Yes, I know, but that won’t pay for what he eats, let 
alone anything else,” answered Averil. “And Libbie, 
with all she has to do-” 

“I guess she’ll manage,” said Willard. Like most men, 
he secretly believed that women had little or nothing to 
do. Another person more or less in the family hardly 
counted. 

Caddie confirmed the report when she came over the 
next afternoon. “Yes, mother brought Daddy Gleason 
home with her,” she announced in reply to Averil’s ques¬ 
tion. “She said he looked exactly like an old dog that’s 
been beaten, and it almost broke her heart. He’s an 
awfully nice old man, but Mrs. Prentice has been as 
mean to him as she could be, thinking that he hadn’t any 
other place to stay, and that nobody would want to 



THE LAKE 91 

bother with him. And she knew he was terribly scared 
of being sent to a home, or something.” 

“He has a little money,” said Averil. 

“Just a little bit,” Caddie replied. “It isn’t enough to 
keep him or provide for him, mother says, if he tried to 
live alone. He’s going to give her the two dollars a 
week that he gave Mrs. Prentice, but what we do for him 
we’ll just be giving to him. We’ve put him in the room 
downstairs off the kitchen, where we can look after him.” 

“It seems pretty hard, when your mother has so much 
to do,” hesitated Averil. 

“Well, I told mother I’d do most of it—looking after 
his room, and what he eats, you know; and she’s going 
to keep his clothes washed and mended. We can get 
along, I guess. He isn’t sick, you know. He’s really 
awfully strong, except that he has some kind of spells 
once in a while.” Caddie spoke with girlish earnestness. 
“He’s a real nice old man,” she said, “and I just hope 
we can make him happier than he has been over there 
at Mrs. Prentice’s.” 

“I guess you can all right,” responded Averil, “but 
it’s kind of hard on you and your mother.” She felt a 
little guilty that she had not thought of taking the old 
man herself. Or Alec might have done it. Everybody 
seemed to take it for granted that he had to stay at 
Mira Prentice’s just because he’d gone there when his 
daughter died three years ago, herself an old woman. 
“Well, Libbie Hunt has courage,” Averil thought; “more 
than the rest of us, and sense, too. But we all ought to 
turn in and help her a little. I’ll make some nice new 
shirts for him, and I know Alec ’ll give him some shoes.” 
She went upstairs to rummage out some socks and under¬ 
clothes which she could mend and send over by Caddie. 


92 


THE LAKE 


Libbie Hunt was rather surprised and alarmed at what 
she had done, but she consoled herself with the assurance 
that she was right, and that Daddy Gleason had really 
had to be rescued from the clutches of Mira Prentice. 
She liked the old man, too, and he would be company 
when the children were away. It would not be long 
now till John-Benjy would be starting off for school. 

Libbie thought a great deal about Carraline, rapidly 
developing from childhood to very young young-woman- 
hood. “I don’t see what chance I can give her,” she told 
herself. “There ain’t a cent of money to do with, and 
it ain’t likely that her father ’ll ever be able to help any 
of us. Poor Ben! and poor Caddie! A girl likes to have 
a few good times, and some pretty clothes, and a chance 
to see different kinds of people. But I honestly don’t 
see what I can do.” She turned things over in her mind, 
when she could not sleep, on these magic summer nights. 
“The only thing I can do,” she concluded on every such 
occasion, “is to give her the best training I can, out of 
what little I know, and let her get along as best she can, 
for herself.” 

On one of these mornings, Elizabeth and Carraline 
were up early, working in the garden. “Dishes and such 
things can wait,” said Libbie. “The morning is the time 
to get the garden work done.” The garden was their 
source of life, almost, for from it they drew nearly all 
their yearly sustenance. 

The old man, Mr. Gleason—it had been privately 
agreed that none of the Hunts should call him Daddy 
Gleason—was entertaining John-Benjy on the back 
porch, with willow whistles, cat’s cradles, and other forms 
of amusement suited to the very old and the very young. 

There had been a long silence, during which the 


THE LAKE 


93 


mother and daughter, crouching on burlap bags, had 
worked swiftly at the insolence of weeds, the last per¬ 
haps, as Libbie said, that they might have to deal with 
that summer. 

Suddenly Caddie looked up, pushing her old straw 
hat back from her forehead. Her eyes were clear and 
shy. “Mother, what is being in love?” she asked. 

Libbie gazed at her across the rows of beets. Caddie 
bent to her task again. “Being in love?” Libbie con¬ 
sidered gravely. She was always careful not to take a 
frivolous tone with Carraline on serious subjects. To 
Libbie, love was a serious subject, none more so. “Why, 
it's caring for someone a whole lot,” she answered slowly; 
“more than anyone else in the world.” 

“Caring for—a man?” asked Caddie tentatively. 

“Mm—why, yes, that’s the way we usually speak of 
it. Of course we care a lot for other people, too, but-” 

“I see,” said Caddie. Then: “Why should one care 
for a man so much—a man that you haven’t known very 
well, that isn’t of your own family, that doesn’t belong 
to you? I don’t see why.” 

Libbie looked blank. “Well, it does seem queer,” she 
confessed. “I suppose it’s because he’s nicer than any¬ 
one else.” 

“Nicer?” Caddie raised her eyes. “They can’t all be 
nicer,” she said. 

Libbie smiled wryly. “The women think they are, I 
guess,” she answered cautiously. “Each woman thinks 
her man is the nicest. She does at first, anyway,” she 
added to herself, bending over the row of beets. 

“But they must find out sometime that they aren’t,” 
persisted Caddie, with unconscious cynicism. “Do you 
suppose Mrs. Hendricks thought that Mr. Hendricks was 



94 


THE LAKE 


nicer than anyone else?” The girPs nose wrinkled. “Did 
Mrs. Faraday think that Willard Faraday was the nic¬ 
est? Did you, mother—did you think-” 

“Hush,” said Libbie, a dull red flush coming over her 
face in the shadow of her blue-print sunbonnet. “You 
must be careful what you say, Caddie.” 

“Well,” the girl sulked, “I want to know things, 
mother. When you begin to grow up, you want to know 
about things. Other people have been living a longer 
time, and they’ve learned things already; but when 
you’re growing up, there’s a time when you have to learn, 
too.” 

“That’s so. I know that’s so,” Mrs. Hunt admitted. 
“I want you should get things as straight as you can. 
But on some things, people differ. Some think one thing, 
and some another. But, on the whole,” she continued 
thoughtfully, “I guess most things are sort of settled. 
What is it that you want to know?” 

“Well, about being in love,” frowned Caddie, pausing 
with her hands among the leaves. “There’s more to it 
than just thinking a person is nice, and caring a lot for 
them, isn’t there?” 

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Hunt scratched the ground thought¬ 
fully with her trowel. “That’s the foundation of it, you 
might say. But—yes, there is more, dear, but I don’t 
know as I can tell you what it is. It’s caring a great 
deal—caring terribly, I guess I mean; and wanting to 
give the person just the most good there is in the world, 
wanting to do all you can for them, standing by them, 
no matter what happens—and wanting to marry them,” 
she went on in a lower tone. “I guess I’d better tell you 
that, too. It’s wanting to marry them.” 

Caddie sat breathless, crouched on her heels. Her 


THE LAKE 95 

eyes were on the willow trees, away down in the meadow. 
“And what is getting married, mother?” she asked. 

Mrs. Hunt shifted her position. “Well,” she said re¬ 
luctantly, “it’s having a minister go through a ceremony 
—you know that.” 

“Oh, yes, I know that” 

“And living together after that time—going on living 
together.” 

“Of course I know that, too. People can’t separate 
after that, can they?” 

“Not very well.” Libbie was digging up lusty weeds 
with relentless vigour. 

“But there’s something more, isn’t there?” said Caddie, 
with puzzled insistence. 

“Mm—well, it’s being very close to each other in 
everything,” Libbie answered in her wholesome, matter- 
of-fact tone, “the closest that it’s possible, you know. 
When you love a person very much, then you want to 
share everything with them—not keep back anything.” 

“Yes, it ought to be like that,” said Caddie. 

“You’ll know more about it after a while,” said Mrs. 
Hunt. “I don’t know as it’s necessary for you to know 
it all at once. These things sort of come to a person. 
And don’t go asking other people,” she warned the girl. 
“Come to me if there’s anything you think you must 
know.” 

Caddie was absorbed in thought for a long time. “I 
suppose you can tell for sure, when you care for anyone 
like that?” she inquired. 

Libbie considered again. “Usually,” she said. “Yes, 
I guess you always can. But sometimes you think you’ve 
found the right one, when you haven’t. You want to be 
real careful, and then you won’t make any mistake.” 


96 


THE LAKE 


“Do people make mistakes about it?” Caddie was 
wide-eyed. 

“Sometimes they' do.” 

“And marry someone they don’t care such an awful 
lot for—-that they don’t want to share everything 
with?” 

“Yes, I guess I’ll have to tell you the truth,” returned 
Libbie grimly. “They do, a good many times.” 

“Then you can’t be sure” Caddie spoke with disap¬ 
pointment. Her eyes clouded and her chin was almost 
quivering. 

Libbie was perplexed as to how to answer. She had 
her code, and her opinion, but she could not put them 
into words which would satisfy her. “I guess when it’s 
real, you know for sure,” she said. “But lots of people 
can’t care that way forever, it seems. There isn’t enough 
to ’em. Being in love is such an awful big thing—it’s 
too much for some people. They ain’t' big enough for it. 
I always say—to myself, I mean; I don’t talk about 
these things much to anybody else—I always say' that it 
takes a person with a big soul to really love. A lot of 
little-souled people don’t know anything about it.” 

“I see,” responded Caddie dubiously, as if she did not 
see. 

Libbie continued her work, in deep contemplation. “I 
guess the best thing that anybody can keep in mind is 
something that it says in the Bible,” she said at last. 

“What’s that?” asked Caddie, raising her head. 

“ ‘The spirit is all—the flesh profiteth nothing! It may 
not be in exactly those words, but that’s what it means.” 

“What does it mean?” asked the girl. 

Mrs. Hunt answered slowly, weighing her words. “It 
means that, after all is said and done, it’s what you think, 


THE LAKE 


97 


what’s in your mind, in your soul, that really counts; 
that the body isn’t the real thing in life—it isn’t the real 
person; that there’s more to us than that. Do you under¬ 
stand?” 

“Maybe,” answered Caddie. “I think I do.” 

“You see,” the mother went on, elucidating her sub¬ 
ject with conviction and yet with diffidence, “it isn’t how 
one looks, or how big or how little he is, or whether he’s 
whole or crippled, or tall or short, or who his father was, 
or where he came from; it’s what he is, what his mind is, 
that his soul is-” Elizabeth Hunt floundered. 

“Yes, mother, I can see that,” cried Caddie joyfully. 
“I can, honestly.” 

“You want to think of it often,” said her mother. 
“When you get to thinking that a person’s looks count for 
an awful lot, or his body, or his ancestors, or his sur¬ 
roundings.” 

“Yes, I see,” Caddie repeated. “A person could be 
'awfully nice, and not look nice, or he could come from 
queer people, and still be all right to marry.” 

“It’s especially true when it comes to marrying,” said 
Tibbie Hunt. “The body isn’t what counts, at all.” 

* *‘Uh-huh,” replied the girl comprehendingly. Her fin¬ 
ders fumbled among the weeds. She was not thinking 
what she was doing. She was thinking how sometime 
she would be in love—with a man, a kind and wonderful 
'man. ( He might not be good looking at all, he might be 
really plain (Caddie hoped that he wouldn’t), or he 
might be one-armed or hunch-backed (Caddie prayed 
that he might not), but if she loved him, it would make 
no difference to her what he looked like, or where he 
came from. She would know that she loved him, and she 
would stand by him no matter what happened, and want 



98 


THE LAKE 


to give him everything that she could, and do everything 
for him that she could, and make him perfectly happy. 

Up and down the long rows she went, as in a dream, 
hardly noticing the hot sun on her shoulders, nor the 
ache in her arms. Her mind was full of visions, half 
acknowledged, clouded with shyness and with innocence, 
full of mystery and loveliness. She started as from a 
trance when her mother spoke to her about some trivial 
thing. 

Libbie scrutinized the girl’s face wistfully. She felt 
very solemn. “Oh, I hope I’ve told her the right thing,” 
she was saying to herself. “She’s a dear girl, and I 
wouldn’t want her to get wrong notions.” She sighed, 
feeling a pang at her mother-heart. “It seems kind of 
sad, somehow, to see ’em growing up and learning what 
there really is to life!” 

******* 

Time was going on swiftly now, and summer had 
emerged into autumn. Bert was in school again—but 
there were always Saturdays. Potato digging was nearly 
over; corn husking was coming. Willard and Alec had 
worked hard on their respective farms. Crops and prices 
were promising. 

One Saturday Willard was taking a load of potatoes 
to Prattsville, the county seat, nine miles away. He 
started early, and would be back before nightfall. In the 
middle of the forenoon, Alexander McLean called up on 
the telephone. He wanted to speak to Bert. He never 
talked to Averil over the telephone, except in the most 
perfunctory and guarded way, and seldom at that; be¬ 
cause all the country lines were “party” lines, and every¬ 
body listened in to hear what everybody else was saying. 


THE LAKE 


99 


“Oh, say, Bert,” said Alexander, his voice full and 
suave on the wire, “why can’t you and I have an 
outing together? It’s a great day, but there’s no 
telling how long such weather will last. Want to 
go?” 

“Yes, yes, of course I do.” Bert was always awkward 
at the telephone. “But where—what-” 

“We’ll go out in the woods. I’ll meet you at the log 
house at three o’clock. Ask your mother if that’s all 
right.” 

Bert left the receiver swinging, and went to the kitchen 
door to tell his mother. She looked disturbed. “I’d like 
it awful well,” urged Hubert, 

“Tell him you can go, then,” she said unwillingly. 
“Did he say anything about taking a lunch?” 

Bert shook his head. “I guess we’ll be back for sup¬ 
per. He didn’t say.” 

“Well.” Averil had consented, though with apprehen¬ 
sion. Bert scuttled back to the telephone. 

That afternoon he started out early, so that he might 
be sure not to keep Uncle Alec waiting. He was resolved 
not to stop at the Hunts’, lest he should be overpersuaded 
and lured into delay. There were always so many things 
to talk about. The old man, Mr. Gleason, was raking 
dry maple leaves in the long front yard. His shoulders 
were hunched a little, but he wielded the rake with quick 
strong motions. “Hello,” he called out happily to Bert. 
He looked clean and well cared for, and his blue eyes 
were beaming with satisfaction. Even Bert could not 
help seeing how happy the old man was to be at Libbie 
Hunt’s. 

Bert called back “Hello!” and remarked on the size 
of the pile of leaves in the driveway. 


100 


THE LAKE 


“Got yours all raked yet?” asked Mr. Gleason, proud 
of his work. 

“Not all. I’m leaving some till to-morrow.” 

“Oh, that’s Sunday. Better rake ’em to-day,” said the 
old man. He felt proud to be so active, so forehanded, 
so virtuous in his regard for the Sabbath. Bert backed 
away from the fence. “Caddie’s pulling the carrots,” 
the old man told him. 

“I got to go on. I got to meet somebody,” said Bert. 
He felt important, meeting Uncle Alec in that way. The 
old man nodded, snatching at the leaves with his wooden 
rake, and rustling them into a pile. 

Bert was early, after all, and had to wait a long time 
for Alec at the log house, a deserted cabin set where a 
grass-grown road branched off from the highway. 

But after a while, there was Alec striding along in 
corduroys and flannel shirt, with a gun over his shoulder. 
He walked as if getting over the ground were a process 
of nature, involuntary and unnoticed, like breathing. 
“Hey, there!” he called, laughing. “Been waiting long?” 

“Not so awful,” answered Bert. “But I guess I was 
early.” 

“Guess you were. I’m just on time.” Alec pulled out 
his watch. He wore a short wool jacket, and a soft felt 
hat, shapeless with age, but he seemed to Bert impres¬ 
sively well dressed. “We’ll go along the Chain,” he 
said. “You don’t get over there very often.” 

“No,” said Bert. 

“Well, we’II see what’s over there,” smiled Alec. 

They walked down the grassy road, between neglected 
fields. Iri ( ten minutes, the lustred surface of a lake ap¬ 
peared. It was the first of the Chain. Bert had been 
there before, a good many times if they were all counted; 


THE LAKE 


101 


but not so often that the lake did not seem new to him 
on this autumn afternoon. The warm sun beat down 
upon him, but the cool wind took away the sting of the 
heat. White clouds billowed along the sky. Across the 
lake a tamarack swamp showed misty blue. 

They turned in along the edge of the marsh, where 
twisted gentians stood up stiffly, and iris pods were 
dry and slitting. On a harder knoll a hickory tree 
showed its dark round fruit. The squirrel instinct of the 
boy would hardly let him pass. 

Up a small rise in the road they went, and then were 
on a flat wooded space which stretched away toward the 
Big Lake. Here the trees were mostly maples and but¬ 
ternuts and bass-woods, whose leaves turn to pure gold 
at the touch of frost. Looking up through the laced 
branches and the yellow leaves already thinned, Hubert 
could see the sky, bluer than it had been before. 

Under foot were the fallen leaves and the jewel-colours 
of red and coral and orange mushrooms. Here and there 
a vine, blood-red, climbed a tree and hung along the 
boughs, dripping its sanguinary foliage far down. 

“This is the finest time of the year,” said Alec. “Can 
you see how wonderful it is, lad?” 

“Uh-huh, I guess so,” answered Bert, gruffly, because 
he felt so shy about things that were beautiful. 

Alec seemed to understand. “It’s the kind of thing 
that there’s no use in talking about,” he said. Bert 
looked up at him, and his face was still and brooding. 
The boy dared not interrupt the man’s thoughts with 
speech. They went on, bound for nowhere in particular, 
treading the gold carpet of the woods. Sometimes Hubert 
scuffled in the leaves, to see the sun glint upon them 
through the boughs. 


102 


THE LAKE 


After a while, a faint sound came to his ears, above 
the flittering of the foliage in the wind, and above the 
screaming of jays and the tapping of nut-hatches on the 
boles. Hubert heard it again. “What is that?” he asked 
breathlessly. 

Alec stopped and listened. “It’s a partridge,” he said, 
his face alert. “It’s over that way. Let’s go as still as 
we can.” 

They crept along under the branches, stopping fre¬ 
quently to crouch and listen. They came at last to an 
open place where in times past two or three trees had 
been brought down by wind or lightning. Here the 
drumming was loud and insistent. “Ssh,” whispered 
Alec. He held his gun in his hand. “See her, Bert?” he 
said. 

At first Bert could not make out anything except a 
huge fallen tree trunk with broken branches. But in a 
minute he could see something moving and then the reg¬ 
ular beating of wings, from which came the muffled 
sound of drumming. “She’s almost the colour of the log,” 
whispered Bert. 

Alec raised his gun to his shoulder. Hubert held his 
breath. But a pang shot* through him which was almost 
like the lead which was in a moment to pierce the sen¬ 
tient creature beating out the last of life before him. 
“Oh-h!” he gasped. Was it too late? He had wanted 
to say, “Oh, don’t!” but he had not been able to speak. 

Alec, without hearing him, had already lowered his 
gun. “Shall we let her live, Bert?” he said thickly. “I 
can’t kill a thing like that, out here in the open, enjoying 
the sun and the air and the woods as much as we do. 
Hadn’t we better let her go on living?” 

Hubert gave a cry of relief. “You bet,” he said, louder 


THE LAKE 103 

than lie intended. “I was awful scared you was going 
to kill her!” 

The bird, hearing the voices, stopped the beating of 
its wings, and stood transfixed; then in a flurry of 
feathers was off on wing, floating silently away like a 
shadow into the thicker woods. “I hope she’ll make the 
most of her chance,” muttered Alec. “The next fellow’s 
heart may not be so soft!” 

Hubert rejoiced openly, in exclamations which had no 
definite wording. 

Alec looked sheepish but pleased. “I’m glad you feel 
the way I do, kid,” he said. “I’m not much for killing 
things. But it wouldn’t do to tell anyone what ninnies 
we are.” 

“No,” agreed Bert. There was no use in telling people 
everything you knew. He had found that fact out be¬ 
fore this. 

They turned back toward the lake, and walked along 
exuberantly. Each was exulting at having given its life 
to this creature of the woods. “Swell hunters, we are,” 
laughed Alec. “Ain’t we the Hiawathas? Oh, well,” he 
added, ‘T guess we can do as we like when we’re off on an 
excursion all by ourselves.” There was a suggestion of 
intimacy in his tone, an affectionate welding of the two 
that made Bert take delight in this companionship. “I 
brought sandwiches,” said the man, as they drew near 
the lake. He reached into the sagging pocket of his 
jacket. “Folks are always hungry in the woods.” 

Hubert felt suddenly hungry, though he had not 
thought about the matter before. They were now on 
the bank of the lake, which lay below an abrupt slope 
of thirty feet. The banks were slippery with brown pine 
needles, and the warm scent of pine was in the air, the 


104 


THE LAKE 


pitchy smell which is the sweetest aroma of the woods. 
“Gee! Ain't it great?” said Bert, sniffing. 

They sat down on a log, and Alec unrolled the paper 
parcel which contained the snack. There were thick 
sandwiches of meat and cheese. As he ate, Hubert sent 
pine cones spinning down the slippery banks, or shied 
pebbles out upon the water. “This lake is different from 
ours,” he said. 

“It's a good deal higher,” said Alec. “It lies on higher 
ground. Did you know that?” 

“No, I never knew about it,” answered Bert, accepting 
another sandwich. 

“Your lake is down on a different level,” Alec explained. 
“If these on this Chain should have a channel cut 
through, the water would rush in and cover all your 
father’s land—and then where’d you be?” He laughed, 
taking another big bite of bread and meat. 

Bert looked startled. The idea was a strange one. 
“You mean, the water would run right out over our 
land?” 

“Yeah,” replied McLean. “That’s just what I mean. 
You see, there’s only a little bit of a place that separates 
them, separates the Chain from your lake, I mean. It 
could be cut through.” 

Bert pondered, staring at the blue water below him. 
“How do you know it would drown our land?” he asked 
incredulously. 

“I can see for myself,” returned Alec. “I know the 
place where the lakes come the nearest together. You 
see, your house and the land around it, and most of your 
father’s farm are not very high above the water.” 

“I know that,” Hubert conceded, still holding his sand¬ 
wich in his hand. 


THE LAKE 


105 


“Your lake is fed by springs, and not by rivers, and 
it hasn’t any outlet,” said McLean. “It’s all right if 
it’s let alone. That house has stood there for sixty 
or seventy years, I guess; but if the water should come 
through from the other side, it would be a bad day for 
all concerned.” Hubert looked so alarmed that Alec 
began laughing again at the sight of the boy’s face. 
“You needn’t be scared,” he hastened to say. “It won’t 
ever happen. I just thought you’d like to hear about it.” 

“Funny I never heard about it before,” grumbled Bert. 

“Hardly anybody knows it, I guess,” answered Alec. 
“What people don’t know won’t hurt ’em.” 

They ate, chatting of other things. Alec had a way of 
speaking to the boy as if they were equals. Hubert liked 
such treatment, which was different from that which he 
received from anyone else. Alec took out his pipe and 
tobacco, and sat with a blue haze round his head, his hat 
pushed back, his cheeks red, his hair showing brown 
under the rim of his hat. He was like a big friendly boy; 
but it would take only an instant to change him to a 
stern and gloomy man. 

They sat a long time; or at least Alec did. Hubert 
was up and down, running to watch a squirrel circling 
an oak tree, with bitter cries of indignation at this 
human invasion; or listening to bird calls ;•• or marvelling 
at the coarse laughter of a pair of loons swimming and 
diving in the lake. 

The man and the boy had another tramp into the 
woods before they started for home. Alec looked at his 
watch. “Getting late,” he said. “I’m a free man. I 
don’t have to account for myself; but it’s different with 
you.” He did not seem to be joking. 

“I guess I’m all right,” Bert made sturdy answer. He 


106 


THE LAKE 


did not want to act scared, nor to whine about things; 
but he had thought all at once of what his father would 
say if he were late. Why should his father care if he 
were out with Uncle Alec? He might know that Alec 
would not let anything happen to him. Perhaps he 
wouldn’t be angry. Perhaps it would be all right. Even 
if it should be a trifle unpleasant, he was glad he had had 
this afternoon. He could stand a lot to pay for it. But 
he cringed, too, when he thought of Willard Faraday’s 
face distorted by anger. 

They were now at a considerable distance from the 
road. They trudged along in the dulling splendour of the 
golden forest. When they came to the road, Alec said, 
“I wonder if I’d better go home with you, Bert?” 

“Oh, I guess not,” answered the boy quickly. “You’ve 
got quite a ways to go, an’ there’s no use in bothering 
with me.” 

McLean stood considering. “I don’t want to muddle 
things,” he said. “I guess, on the whole, it would be 
better if I didn’t go.” He let his gaze fall upon the boy 
with an anxious affectionate look. “I believe it’s better 
this way.” His face cleared. He stood watching as the 
boy went down the road, and disappeared behind the 
hazel bushes. With a long sigh, he turned, shouldered 
his unused gun, and walked away toward home. 

******* 

Hubert, trudging home in the late afternoon, was so 
happy with the remembrance of the hours which he had 
just spent that he hummed little tuneless airs as he went 
along. Sometimes he stopped, stricken with other re¬ 
membrances, but he reassured himself and went on. 

When he arrived at home, Willard was not to be seen. 


THE LAKE 


107 


Hubert went quietly into the house, feeling the desire 
to get to his mother. She was clearing the table, but 
his plate was as yet not removed. “You’re late, Bertie,” 
she said. “Your father has been wondering where you 
were.” 

“Aw, I was all right,” he replied. His face was still 
shining with the happiness of the uneventful afternoon. 
“Uncle Alec wouldn’t let anything happen to me.” 

“I don’t think it was that,” said his mother in a low 
tone. 

They heard the step of Willard at the back door. He 
came through the shed and the kitchen, and stood in the 
door, glowering. “So you’re back, are you?” he said, 
bending his gaze on the lad. “Been off in the woods, 
have you?” 

“Yes, I been over on the Chain,” answered the boy. 

“With Alec?” 

“Yes.” 

“Funny that Alec hasn’t got anything to do but go 
trailing around in the woods with a boy,” commented 
Willard. His nostrils trembled; his lips twitched. 

“We had a bully time,” said Hubert, feeling that he 
was defending the good judgment of Uncle Alec. “We 
was hunting.” 

“Get anything?” asked Faraday. 

Bert shook his head. “Mm-h. We saw one or two 
things, but they got away.” 

“Great hunters you are,” said Willard. Averil was 
standing behind him, her face anxious. For the first 
time, Hubert noticed furrows in her forehead and around 
her mouth. He did not say anything. It seemed as if 
anything he said would be wrong, with his father looking 
like that. He slid into his chair at the table. “You 


108 


THE LAKE 


ought to go without your supper/’ said Willard, as if 
he were seeking a pretext for his wrath; “coming home 
late like this. Do you expect your mother to wait on 
you, when you come home any time you please?” 

“It isn’t very late, Will,” interposed Averil faintly. 
“We had supper early, you know.” 

Faraday shot her a glance over his shoulder. “That’s 
right,” he said, “stick up for him. Let him do anything 
he likes, with the rest of us standing round like black 
niggers.” He took a step forward. Bert, looking up, saw 
him, towering like a thundercloud above him. He 
winced, and a tremor ran through his shoulders. “You 
had no business going out like that,” Faraday went on. 
“You can find enough to do here on the farm. I want 
you to say you’ll never do it again.” 

It was a ridiculous attack and an absurd request. 
They all knew that. The idea of making the boy prom¬ 
ise that he would never go off the farm was too foolish 
for contemplation. Hubert hastily reviewed the implica¬ 
tions of it. He could not agree to such a thing. He 
would not promise not to go out with Alec McLean 
again. He sat dumb. “I want you to say it, sir,” repeated 
the angry man. “Say it, say it,” he commanded, leaning 
over the boy. 

Hubert dared not look up now. He kept his eyes 
down to his lap, and his lips pressed together. He shook 
his head. 

“You won’t?” Willard said in a low voice that was 
more terrible than his shouting. “I say, you young scan¬ 
dal, that you’re not going out like this with Alec McLean, 
setting the whole neighbourhood to laughing. I won’t 
stand for it. Do you hear?” 

Hubert made nothing of the words, except that he was 


THE LAKE 109 

not to go out with the man whom he adored. “Uncle 
Alec-” he began, with a choke in his throat. 

Faraday jumped and gave a loud cry. “Uncle Alec! 
Uncle Alec! I’ll Uncle Alec you.” He seized the boy by 
the collar, and jerked him out of his chair. Averil ut¬ 
tered a stifled scream. Faraday gave another jerk, and 
the sound of rending cloth was heard. Shaking and 
pushing the lad with his knee, Faraday pulled him out 
into the kitchen. “I’ll Uncle Alec you,” he was saying 
over like a machine. He struck the boy two or three 
times, heavily, with his hand. Averil, panting and 
screaming, plucked at his arm, calling “Willard, Willard, 
you don’t know what you’re doing. Stop! Stop!” 
Hubert had not uttered a sound. She tried to force her¬ 
self in between the angry man and his victim, but Fara¬ 
day pushed her off roughly. Still she fought at him with 
her hands, to save the boy from his violence. Faraday 
had begun jerking and striking him again. “You’ll kill 
him. Stop! Stop!” Averil shrieked, her voice shrill with 
terror. 

Faraday loosed his hold on Hubert so suddenly that 
the boy staggered and fell backward. He put out his 
hand to save himself, and struck it against the hot iron 
of the kitchen stove. 

Willard had turned against Averil, and had raised his 
arm to strike. “Willard!” she begged. He went limp; 
his arm dropped; he stood weakly for a moment, then 
turned and went out at the back door. He sank down 
on the stone step, and hid his face in his hands. Averil 
ran to Hubert. “Are you awfully hurt, dear?” she cried. 
“Are you hurt? Are you burned?” 

The boy was shaking all over, in a fit of nervous lax¬ 
ness. His face was white. He stood shaking and blink- 


110 


THE LAKE 


ing and gasping, holding up his hand, on which a dreadful 
red mark had risen. Averil groaned. She put her arm 
about him, and led him into the other room and made 
him sit down in the big Boston rocker. He was trem¬ 
bling, not so much with fear as with shock, and his lips 
were quivering. But even in his misery he remembered 
that he could tell Uncle Alec that he had not whined 
nor cried. 

Averil went to bring soda and cloths for the burned 
hand. The eyes of the boy were dark with suffering. 
“Do you suppose he’ll go after us again?” he asked in a 
whisper. 

His mother shook her head. She was pale and agon¬ 
ized, but her hands were steady as she bound up the 
painful palm. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “He’s 
sorry already for what he’s done.” 

“Sorry!” There was scorn in the lad’s whisper. But 
just then a kind of dizziness came over him, and a ring¬ 
ing in his ears, a blackness before his eyes. His head 
lolled against the high back of the rocking chair. When 
the wave of dizziness had passed, he opened his eyes upon 
his mother’s frightened face. “I’m all right,” he said, 
when his lips could move. 

She put her cheek against his, her eyes closed. “Oh, 
my child, my beautiful child,” she murmured. “What 
shall I do to help you?” 

“I’m all right, ma,” he repeated, trying to speak 
sturdily. “I guess I want something to eat.” It seemed 
a long time since he and Uncle Alec had sat on the log 
in the woods and eaten their little packet of sandwiches. 

Averil hurried to the kitchen to get milk for the boy. 
Willard had left the door step, and was walking about 
in the yard, his head down. Averil brought milk and 


THE LAKE 


111 


bread and meat from the kitchen, and Hubert ate and 
drank. “I feel better,” he said. But now the injured 
hand was beginning to burn and ache. In a few minutes 
the pain was unbearable. He started up and began 
walking around, holding the arm with his well hand, 
and uttering exclamations of pain. He ran out upon 
the porch and paced up and down, his face puckered 
with torture. His mother stood biting her lips and hold¬ 
ing her hands tight together, horrified at her inability 
to save her child from suffering. 

Hubert threw himself face downward on the settle. 
He heard a step. Willard was beside him, putting a 
clumsy hand on his shoulder. “Bert, Bert,” he said in 
a stifled voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was 
doing.” 

Bert twisted his head to look up, but there was aver¬ 
sion in his look. “Aw, it’s all right,” he said gruffly. He 
felt sorry for a man who had to go about begging peo¬ 
ple’s pardons. But it wasn’t all right. Nothing could 
ever make it all right. 

Willard was still standing over him awkwardly. “Half 
the time I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. “I 
feel so—so ” 

“So what?” asked the boy, curiosity penetrating his 
pain. He had a glimpse of the agony of the man, which 
seemed no less than his own. He wondered dimly what 
it could be that made a man act like that. 

“So—I can’t tell you—so terrible.” Willard stooped 
and curved his arm across the boy’s shoulders, trying to 
caress him. Bert cringed, but did not shake it off. He 
felt vaguely sorry for his father—sorry that anyone 
could be so unjust, so irrational, so cruel. But he felt 
hard, too, and contemptuous. 



112 


THE LAKE 


Willard went away and sat on the steps, dejected, 
shamed. Averil came and went without noticing him, 
trying to find remedies for the torture in the boy’s hand. 
The dusk came down, chill and sharp, with a white mist 
standing over the lake. In the front of the house the 
acacias were almost bare; the sedges along the shore 
were dry and brown, but the grass retained its colour, 
almost startlingly green. “Better come in the house,” 
said Averil. She urged Bert into the front room, holding 
to his elbow, lest he should become dizzy again. 

She had lighted the lamp in the homely parlour. Bert 
sat staring at the what-not with the little trinkets that 
he liked—the bright china ornaments, two shepherd girls 
in lacy dresses; a shell-covered box; a glass paper 
weight with gay mixed spots of colour inside. There 
was a fireplace, and Averil had started a tiny blaze with 
some old pasteboard and a few chips. Not many houses 
in that country had fireplaces, but this one had been 
built long ago by people from New England. 

Bert held his burning hand out stiffly before him. The 
room looked strange to him, almost as if he were seeing 
it in a dream. If his hand didn’t hurt him so, he thought, 
it would be nice here in the house, with the light and the 
fire, and the cozy sense of escape from the cold and mist 
outside. He moved his hand up and down, making as 
he did so a little “Ah-h, ah-h,” rhythmically under his 
breath, an abortive bleat of pain which could take the 
place of tears. 

All at once Averil, who had sat down for a moment 
on the sofa, burst out into sobbing, her arm held hard 
across her mouth. She rose thus and ran upstairs, the 
sound of her loud sobs suddenly cut off by the slamming 
of her door. Willard got up from the porch, and went 


THE LAKE 


113 


through the yard, toward the barn. The house was still. 
Hubert sat in a stupor before the fire. He seemed to see 
the blue and gold of the lake and the woods as they had 
looked that afternoon, and to hear the voice of Uncle 
Alec saying: “I guess we can do as we please, when 
we're out for a good time by ourselves.” He was glad 
and proud that he had not promised never to go out 
with Uncle Alec again. 


CHAPTER VI 


Growing boys develop irregularly, by fits and starts. 
Hubert Faraday developed more in the days following 
the experience with his father than he had done for a 
year. His mind was a turmoil of reactions—of feelings 
toward the members of the group in which he lived. 
His mother, now: the way in which she had suddenly 
gone out of the room, sobbing, with her arm across her 
mouth, had given him a dim boyish realization of what 
she suffered. It must be pretty bad, he thought, to have 
a man mean to you like that—to have him so queer and 
changeable, sometimes nice and sometimes terrible, to 
have him rough with the people in the house, and to see 
him threaten you with his arm up, as Willard had done. 
“I believe he would have hit her, if he hadn’t gone after 
me,” Bert said to himself. 

He thought about what he would do if his father 

should ever strike Averil. “I’d—I’d-” he began. But 

what could he do? Willard was frightfully strong; a 
boy would have no chance at all with him. “I could call 
somebody—Uncle Alec, maybe—on the telephone,” he 
thought. But by the time Alec could get there, anything 
might happen. And Alec might not be in the house when 
he called, so there would be no help for a long time, if 
at all. He shuddered to think what would take place if 
Uncle Alec should be there when Willard should strike 
114 


THE LAKE 


115 


Averil. That would be almost worse than anything else 
—a fight between Alec and Willard, both of them angry, 
and both of them so strong. It would be like two bears 
or lions fighting each other. 

Hubert decided that if his father should strike his 
mother, and there were no one near to help, he would 
have to do something, himself. Perhaps he would have 
to shoot his father. There was an old revolver in the 
top drawer of the secretary. Most farmers kept some 
weapon in the house, for destroying marauding animals 
and protecting the household against a hypothetical 
foe. 

Bert ventured to speak privately to his mother con¬ 
cerning these things. “If pa should hit you, what could 
we do, mama?” 

Averil looked at him wanly. “I don’t think he’ll ever 
do that, Bertie,” she said. 

“But he almost did,” the boy reminded her. “You 
know he almost did.” 

“I know,” Averil conceded. “But he’s so sorry that 
I don’t think he’ll ever do it again.” 

“But you can’t tell,” argued Bert. “Nobody knows 
when he’s going to get awful mad about something.” 

“I guess we’ll have to go on the supposition that he 
won’t.” 

“I don’t think that’s any use,” Hubert replied. “If 
there isn’t anybody here to help, and he hits you, ma, 
I guess I’ll have to shoot him.” 

Averil was scandalized. “Don’t talk like that, she 
said sharply. “Of course you wouldn’t do any such 
thing. What would you shoot him with?” 

“With the old revolver that’s in the top drawer, there. 
I’ve seen it lots of times.” 


116 


THE LAKE 


Averil sat with her hands in her lap, thinking. Then 
she got up and went to the secretary, and came back 
with the weapon in her hands, held gingerly before her. 
“I don’t know whether it’s loaded or not,” she said, 
“but I’m not going to take any chances. Come with me, 
Bertie. I want you to see.” 

Hubert, a little scared, followed her as she went out 
on the porch. The cold wind was blowing, and her 
gingham dress was whipped around her body as she 
stood there. Down the steps she went, and out to the 
shore, where the yellow sedges were. She tossed the 
revolver into the water. It fell with a splash, a bigger 
splash than his watch had made, Hubert thought. 
“There! Now we don’t need to think about that any 
more,” Averil said. Her black hair was blowing across 
her face. “Never let such a thing come into your mind 
again, Bertie,” she warned him with severity. 

Bert felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. Now 
he wouldn’t have to do any awful thing if his father 
should get to acting up again; but a sense of helpless¬ 
ness went along with his relief. “But what’ll we do?” 
he gasped. 

“We’ll just have to hope that we’ve seen the worst, 
little boy,” his mother responded, “and that we won’t 
have anything more to worry us.” She added, “Better 
not tell Alec how you hurt your hand.” 

Bert looked down at his bandaged hand and wrist. 
“No.” There were a good many things that one must 
not tell, either to his father or to Alec. He wrinkled his 
forehead, trying to remember what he might and might 
not say. 

“If Alec should hear that Willard had been mean to 
you, he would be terribly mad,” said Averil. “I don’t 


THE LAKE 117 

know what would happen. He thinks that everybody 
should always be good to children.” 

******* 

“How’d you hurt your hand?” asked Alec, the next 
time he saw the boy. Alec was driving into the lane, 
and Bert had run down to meet him. 

“Oh, I burned it,” said the boy carelessly. “It’s get¬ 
ting all right now.” 

“Does it hurt you?” asked McLean, scowling. 

“Naw, not much. It’s getting better,” Bert re¬ 
turned. 

“How was everything when you got home, the other 
night?” Alec inquired, as if he had thought about the 
matter a good deal. 

“We-e-11,” said Bert hesitatingly. He did not want 
to tattle, neither did he want to conceal things from 
Uncle Alec, who was always good to him, and never 
nagged or condemned him. 

“Anybody mad?” asked Alec, looking through half¬ 
shut eyes at the boy, and holding his cigar away from 
his mouth. 

“Pa was kind o’ mad,” said Bert, trying to be casual. 

“Hm. Pretty rough, was he?” 

“Oh, fair,” said Bert. 

Alec sat in the buckboard, looking at the boy. After 
a while he said, “I guess I’m better off not to know. I 
guess everybody’s better off.” He sat holding his cigar 
and staring at the ground. “God!” he said once or twice. 
The boy pretended not to have heard. 

******* 

It was the wile of a woman that brought his secret 


118 


THE LAKE 


from him. Caddie Hunt was walking home with him 
from school. Earlier in the day she had asked him 
about his hand, but he had refused to answer her. Now 
she said, ‘Til carry your lunch pail for you.” 

“Naw, I can carry it,” he answered. But he handed 
it over when she insisted. It was easier when he did 
not have to carry that and his books beside. 

“How did you hurt it?” asked Caddie with sympathy 
in her brown eyes. 

“Put it against the stove,” he said moodily. 

“Don’t you know any better than that?” She laughed 
softly, though with commiseration. 

“Most of the time I do,” he answered; “but thi3 time 
I was pushed.” 

“Oh! Who pushed you?” cried Caddie. Her eyes 
were troubled. 

Bert shook his head. “I’d better not tell.” 

“It was your father,” said Caddie. 

“How did you know?” Bert looked at her with 
surprise. 

“Who else would it be?” said Caddie. “Your mother 
wouldn’t do it, and there isn’t anyone who would, 
except-” 

“That’s so,” admitted the boy. 

“What’d he push you against the stove for?” 

“Well, I don’t s’pose he meant to. He just gave me a 
shove, and I fell, and I couldn’t save myself.” 

“Was he—hurting you?” asked the girl, in a shocked 
tone. 

Bert nodded, and looked away across the fields. He 
felt sorry for himself, and glad to have this sympathy. 

“How awful! But what had you been doing?” 

“Nothing,” the boy replied. “I’d just been out in the 



THE LAKE 119 

woods with Alec McLean-” He went on to tell the 

circumstances of the accident. 

“Whew!” Caddie made comment. “He gets awful 
mad, doesn’t he?” 

Bert nodded again. “Folks don’t know it, though,” 
he said. “I didn’t mean to tell.” He knew his mother 
would not be pleased with his tattling. He made haste 
to find other things to talk about. 

When Caddie got home, she went, as she always did, 
to tell her mother the day’s news. “Mr. Faraday knocked 
Bert against the stove, and he burned his hand awfully,” 
she announced. 

“Who burnt his hand? Bert?” 

“Yes. His father was hurting him, and he fell against 
the hot stove,” Caddie explained. 

Mrs. Hunt frowned over the carpet rags which she 
was sewing. “What was he hurting him for? Had Bert 
done something?” 

“No, not a thing. He’d just been out with Alec 
McLean, and when he came home, they’d had their 
supper, but it wasn’t really late, for they’d had such 
an early supper—Mr. Faraday wanted it early-” 

“He’d been out with Alec, had he?” 

“Yes, just out in the woods along the Chain.” Mrs. 
Hunt did not answer. She was sewing at her carpet rags. 
“It’s funny, isn’t it, mother?” persisted Caddie. 

“Well, boys are tantalizing sometimes,” parried Lib- 
bie. “Bert may have said or done something that you 
don’t know about.” 

“I don’t think so,” said Caddie decidedly. 

“Well, I wouldn’t go round telling it if I was you,” 
Libbie answered. “The best rule is, to let other folks’ 
quarrels alone.” 


120 


THE LAKE 


“I suppose that’s true,” answered the girl. “But, any¬ 
way, I think Willard Faraday is horrid” 

“Why, no, he isn’t horrid, either,” protested Mrs. Hunt. 
“He’s all right in his way. He works hard and pays his 
debts, and minds his own affairs, and never does his 
neighbours any harm.” 

“I wasn’t thinking of those things,” said Caddie. 

“You should be. There’s been times when he’s done 
a good deal for us. When Benjy was born, and your 
father was away, Willard came over every day for a long 
time, and looked after things for me—he and Alec both 
did. And Averil came and brought things to eat, and 
combed your hair, you remember, when you couldn’t 
take care of it yourself. Willard brought Averil over 
in the buggy every day, when he had a million things to 
do himself, and it was hard for him to cut into his time 
that way. Maybe you don’t remember all that.” 

“Oh, yes, I do now,” said the girl slowly. “I—I wasn’t 
thinking of things like that. I was just thinking how 
funny it was that Mrs. Faraday was married to him, 
and wondering whether she liked him or not.” 

“Well, I guess you ain’t called upon to settle other 
people’s marriages,” Mrs. Hunt said with assumed as¬ 
perity. 

Caddie started, and looked hurt. “I wasn’t trying to,” 
she answered, going to hang away her wraps, which 
she had been holding in her hands. She was a bit dazed 
by her mother’s unexpected sharpness. 

After she had gone, Mrs. Hunt let her sewing fall into 
her lap. “It does seem queer how they got tied up 
together,” she admitted to herself. “But I guess they 
would have got along all right—or as well as most folks 
—if it hadn’t been-” She checked herself, for Libbie 



THE LAKE 


121 


Hunt was one of the conscientious people who try to 
control their thoughts as well as their words. “It’s get¬ 
ting serious when he treats the boy that bad. I wish 
I could do something; but I feel pretty sure that the best 
thing I can do is to let other folks’ business alone. ,, 

******* 

Willard Faraday had gone out to one of his fields to 
dig potatoes. But he was not working. He sat on an 
overturned potato-box, unmoving, his hands hanging 
down between his knees. He was staring before him, not 
seeing the grey sky and the denuded woods. Now and 
then he muttered. He was suffering anguish for what 
he had done to Hubert. His thoughts were unworded, 
but they were of this sort: Why can’t I be good to the 
boy? He’s a fine boy, as fine as anybody’s. Anybody 
would be glad to own him. If only he cared more for 
me! But how can he care for me, when I treat him so? 
Why can’t I control myself? Why can’t I hide what I 
feel? Why can’t I take things for granted, as other men 
do? If every man got to wondering, and tormenting 
himself about his wife and children, nobody could have 
any peace. No man can be sure of what his household 
hides. You have to have some common sense. You have 
to be a man, to get a hold on yourself and keep it. If 
you let yourself go, you’ll do some damage, do something 
you’ll be sorry for. 

He was sorry now for what he had done. He’d give 
a million dollars if he’d never laid hands on the boy. 
What a fool he had been to lay a hand on him! The 
boy would never like him again. There was nothing he 
could do now to repair that damage. There was no 
bribe he could offer, no allurement or cajoling that would 


122 


THE LAKE 


win back what the passion of isolated moments had lost. 
And suppose everything were all right. Suppose he had 
been mistaken, and he had been ill-treating his own boy! 
What a fool, what a damned fool he was! 

He rose, and dug into the ground with his potato fork, 
turning up the crumbling soil, the pink dirt-dimmed 
tubers, an occasional fat slug. The rows of potatoes lay 
drying in the wind. The slatted boxes stood ready to 
receive them. Bert ought to be out picking them up; 
but of course he couldn’t pick up potatoes with a burned 
hand. 

Then like a cloud, depression fell upon him again. 
He stood with his foot on the top of the fork, staring, 
thinking, thinking. By God, they ought to be killed. 
They all ought to be killed, the whole three. That was 
the only way to wipe it all out, to make it as if it had 
never been. They ought to be killed. A man who was 
a man would kill them all. If he were sure, of course. 
The thing was, to be sure. 

Then he worked with frenzied energy, to crowd down 
his thoughts, to force himself to forget, to think of 
something else. There was the price of potatoes. They 
were going to be a dollar a bushel. If they were, a 
fellow with a lot of them to sell would feel pretty rich. 
He might get a second-hand car. It would do the whole 
family good to get out more. They were indoors too 
much. Averil, now, never got out anywhere—that is, 
hardly at all. She didn’t seem to get invited much, and 
she didn’t seem to want to go. She ought to mix up in 
church affairs more; that was the sort of thing that a 
woman ought to be interested in. As a rule, a woman 
was safe if she was mixing up in church affairs. They 
gave her something to do and something to think of. 


THE LAKE 


123 


But Averil didn’t seem to care much for church. She 
had even said that the minister was silly, that he didn’t 
know what people needed, that he didn’t know anything 
about life. What did she know about life that the min¬ 
ister didn’t know? What had she meant, when she said 
such a bold thing? That would bear looking into. 

Here he was, back at the old question. How could he 
be suref What was hidden in the secret places of Averil’s 
life? The price of potatoes—a new roof on the big barn 
‘—a second-hand car—the church—Hubert—a fine boy 
—as fine as anybody’s boy—never lay a hand on him 

again—n 0 t for a million dollars- Confusion asserted 

itself once more in the mind of Willard Faraday. 

******* 

Alec McLean had been to Prattsville, nine miles away, 
selling a load of potatoes, and he had bought a pair 
of stout winter shoes for old Mr. Gleason, and a pair 
of goloshes to go with them. McLean had gradually 
taken upon himself the responsibility of the old man’s 
clothes. 

There was a drizzling rain which would presently be 
snow. Alec drove into the yard at the Hunt place, and 
left his horses standing. He saw Caddie coming out 
of the chicken house, where she had been feeding the 
fowls their hot mash before they went to bed. She had 
an old grey cape over her head and wrapped around 
her shoulders. Only the bright serious face of the girl 
showed, with a wisp or two of hair curling on her fore¬ 
head. The hand that held the cape together in front 
was red and chapped. 

“Hello, Carraline,” said Alec, in his affable way. 

“Good evening, Mr. McLean,” Caddie replied. It 



124 


THE LAKE 


pleased her to be spoken to as if she were something 
more than a child. “Em glad you call me Carraline. I 
think Caddie is a horrible name.” 

“It isn’t as nice as the other,” Alec agreed. “And 
you’re getting to be so much of a young lady that you 
ought to have your real name.” 

“I think so, too,” glcwed Carraline. 

“You feel pretty grown-up, don’t you?” the man said, 
smiling. He stood holding the big box of shoes and 
rubbers under his arm. “I suppose you’ll be having a 
beau, almost any time now.” 

“Pooh,” said Carraline, pouting, “I’m only thirteen, 
going on fourteen.” 

“Is that all?” Alec simulated amazement. 

“Yes. Of course you know.” 

“It’s hard to remember,” he answered. “You young 
things grow so fast. It won’t be any time till you’re 
married.” 

Carraline grew pink. “We-e-11,” she said, not deny¬ 
ing the soft impeachment. 

Alec surveyed her gravely. “You haven’t thought 
about such things yet,” he said with gentleness. 

“Oh, yes,” said the girl, meeting his gravity with her 
own; “mother has told me.” 

“She has, eh?” Alec looked confused. “Oh, well, then, 
of course-” He took a step toward the house. 

“And so I know about it,” said Carraline. “I know 
the main thing about it.” 

Alec’s jaw fell. “M-m, well-” he made comment, 

and could get no farther. 

“I know that the main thing is that the spirit is all, 
the flesh profiteth nothing, just as it says in the Bible,” 
the girl went on triumphantly. 



THE LAKE 


125 


McLean stared, his lips still open in surprise. He 
stood looking at Carraline and beyond her. “That’s 
right,” he said at last. “That’s true. What your mother 
has told you is true, Caddie.” 

“Carraline,” the girl corrected him, as she went to 
put her pail into the shed. 

“Yes—Carraline.” McLean mechanically accepted the 
correction. Under his breath he added, “Well, I’ll be 
damned!” 

They went into the house through the kitchen. Mrs. 
Hunt was putting the potatoes into the oven, for the 
early supper. “Good day, Mother Hunt,” said the man. 

“Why, how are you, Alec?” she said in a pleased 
voice. She had not realized that she was calling him by 
name for the first time. The warm dusk of the kitchen, 
the heartiness in his voice, her own pleasure in seeing 
him made her speak with sudden spontaneity. 

“Here’s the shoes for the old man,” he said. “Give 
’em to him after I’ve got out, won’t you?” He had 
a man’s horror of being thanked. He laid the box on 
the table, and stood ready to go. 

“He’s in the other room,” said Elizabeth. The smell 
of a villainous pipe gave evidence that the old man was 
not far away. She hated the smell of that pipe, but 
she would not for worlds have said as much. 

“Everybody well?” asked Alec, willing to linger. Cad¬ 
die had gone into the other room. 

“Yes, things are all right,” Libbie returned. “I guess 
it’s time to light the lamp.” 

“Don’t bother,” Alec interposed. “Is there anything 
I can do for you? Did Gundersen fix the root-cellar 
door all right, and nail up those loose boards in the 
barn?” 


126 


THE LAKE 


“Yes, he did everything fine,” said Libbie gratefully; 
“and one or two other things that he said needed fixing. 
It was awful good of you-” 

“Rats,” returned Alec. “He might as well keep busy. 
He don’t work hard enough to hurt him.” Gundersen 
was one of Alec’s hired men, the son of his housekeeper. 
‘Tm glad you’re getting things ready for winter. They 
say it’s going to be a stiff one.” He stood wrapped in 
his overcoat and muffler, striking one gloved hand into 
the other. 

“I dread it, somehow,” said Libbie. 

“Well, it’s hard on the women,” answered Alec. 
“They’re shut up so much. I can see how hard it is 
for them.” 

“Yes, it is.” Libbie stood rubbing her hand back and 
forth on the back of a chair. “I wish Averil’d come over 
oftener,” she said. 

“She stays in pretty close,” assented Alec in a careful 
tone. 

“Too close,” said Libbie. “She don’t have an easy 
life.” 

Alec shifted his feet nervously. “Maybe not,” he 
said. 

“Willard’s hard to get along with,” continued Libbie. 
It took courage to say that. 

“I suppose so,” said Alec, still carefully. 

“He’s pretty mean to the boy, sometimes,” said Libbie, 
studiedly direct. If there was anything she despised, 
it was a taleteller; but se ne things had to be said. 

“I’m afraid so,” said the man. 

“A little while ago, when Bert burned his hand so 
bad—you remember-” 


THE LAKE 


127 


“Yes, yes.” 

“His father—Willard—pushed him against the stove 
—he was jerking him around—beating him, I guess, 

from what I heard-” Libbie spoke almost in a 

whisper. She was ashamed, and yet she had premedi¬ 
tated her course. 

Alec had started as if he had been struck. “Not that!” 
he cried, sucking in his breath with a horrified gasp. 

“I know I shouldn't tell,” said Libbie wretchedly. 
“But I think you ought to know—you like Bert so well,” 
she finished lamely. 

It was getting dark in the kitchen. They could hardly 
see each other’s faces. “Yes, I—like him,” said Alec, 
shuddering. 

Libbie clung to the back of the chair. “Alec-” she 

said, scarcely above her breath. 

“What?” 

“Can’t you—can’t somebody do something?” 

“I don’t see how,” answered the man dully. “Don’t 
you suppose I’ve thought-” 

“Yes, of course,” said Libbie. “But I’m afraid there’s 
no telling-” 

There was a long stillness, broken only by hard an¬ 
guished breathing, and the muffled sounds of talking 
in the other room. “I’ll go now,” said Alec, after a 
while. “Thank you for—for ” 

“I want to do all I can, Alec,” said Libbie. More 
tenderness than she knew vibrated in her voice. 

“Yes.” She realized that Alec was not thinking of her. 

Caddie burst in from the other room. “Oh, has Mr. 
McLean gone?” she said. “I wanted him to hear how 
cunning Benjy says what Mr. Gleason’s teaching him. 


128 


THE LAKE 


Mother, he says, ‘Hey diddle-diddle,’ so funny. You 
want to come and hear him.” 

“I’ll come,” said Libbie. “Light the lamps, Carraline, 
and put some more wood in the stove. I want to show 
Mr. Gleason his new shoes.” 


CHAPTER VII 


Winter came on, like the last act of a tragedy. Snow 
fell, persistently, relentlessly. The lake froze, showing 
black airholes here and there, jagged lines in the white 
flatness. Averil, looking at these open places from the 
front windows, was glad that there was too much snow 
on the ice for skating. She could not have borne the 
thought of Bert, circling around those perilous chasms. 

Willard was in the house a great deal now. It seemed 
as if he were hardly ever away. If he drove to town, he 
went and came with all speed, or insisted on her going 
with him. Alexander McLean came over every few 
days, but she never saw him alone. Willard had grown 
amazingly skillful at keeping them apart. Hubert, of 
course, was in school every day, and did not get home 
till dusk. 

Faraday spent a good deal of time in sawing and 
splitting the logs which he had cut the winter before, 
and which he had hauled in, dry and seasoned, when the 
first snow permitted using a sleigh. He took care of the 
stoves, and kept them hot and glowing, day and night. 
Then he looked after the stock, and puttered about bams 
and sheds. But there was still a good deal of time for 
loafing. Often he occupied himself with a newspaper, 
never with a book. 

The paper from Chicago, with its record of sin and 
129 


130 


THE LAKE 


crime, came daily to the house—or at least as often as 
the rural postman could get through. Willard pored over 
it, holding it stiffly in front of him, and reading it labouri- 
ously, as if eager not to let anything escape. Sometimes 
he read aloud a bit which particularly appealed to him. 

One afternoon, toward sundown, he sat at the window 
in the front room, reading his paper. Hubert had not 
yet returned from school. Averil stood at the window, 
looking across the lake, where recent snow lay white 
and untouched. She was thinking of Alec, as she always 
was—wondering what he was doing, whether he were 
thinking of her, when he would come again. “Listen to 
this,” said Willard. His voice had something menacing 
in it. Averil turned, shrinking. “Listen to this,” he 
repeated. He read in a high impressive voice a sordid 
story of triangular love. “They ought to be killed,” he 
subjoined, when he had finished. “They ought to be 
killed, both of ’em. That man, the husband, he ought 
to take things right into his own hands. That’s the 
thing to do in a case like that.” Averil did not answer, 
but stood gazing, cringing from what he might say next. 
“Do you know it?” Willard repeated. “A man shouldn’t 
stand any fooling. The way to do it is to end it.” 

“How do I know?” said Averil. “I should think it 
would depend on circumstances. And anyway, why 
should he make a murderer of himself, just because 
somebody else has done wrong?” 

“There’s only one way to wipe it out,” repeated Wil¬ 
lard. “That is—to wipe both of ’em out, and a third, 
if there is one.” He rose, tall and threatening, and fixed 
his eyes on his wife. She felt cold terror gripping her, 
but she kept her face unchanged. “Oh, well,” she said, 
“I can’t see that we have any call to muddle up in other 


THE LAKE 131 

people’s business—when they’re off somewhere, a thou¬ 
sand miles away.” 

“There’s things going on that ain’t a thousand miles 
away,” he retorted. 

“Bertie ought to be at home by this time,” said Averil, 
glancing at the clock. “How short the days are! It’s 
dark before you can say scat.” 

Willard had thrown the paper on the floor, and had 
thrust his hands into his pockets. The burning look 
had died out of his eyes. He sat limp and depressed, as 
he usually did after an emotional crisis. But no one 
could tell at what moment the paroxysm might return. 
Bert came running in just then, cold and red-cheeked, 
and the atmosphere was altered. Averil felt herself 
relax into comparative ease again. 

******* 

The next day she had a word or two with Alec. Libbie 
Hunt had invited her over to drink a cup of coffee in 
the afternoon. Willard took her over in the sleigh, and 
then went to the village to buy groceries. He was glad 
to leave her safely at Libbie Hunt’s. Libbie had tele¬ 
phoned to Alec that it seemed almost too coolish in the 
root-cellar, and if he didn’t have anything else to do, he 
might come over and see if it ought to be banked up a 
little more. Averil did not know how Elizabeth Hunt 
manipulated the matter, but all at once she found herself 
alone with Alec McLean in the sitting-room. They 
turned to each other, snatching at the rare moment. 

“Alec,” said Averil hurriedly, “I’m worried—terribly 
—about Bertie.” 

“I know,” Alec returned. “Is it very bad?” 

“Yes. It’s getting worse all the time,” she whispered. 


132 


THE LAKE 


“He talks about killing people. I’m afraid for Bertie. 
Isn’t there something we can do?” 

Alexander stared at her somberly. “I don’t think he’d 
dare to do anything,” he said, “but-” 

“You don’t know how he is,” cried Averil, shivering. 
“You aren’t there, day after day.” 

Alec was scowling and looking at the floor. “I know 
you have the hardest part of it, in some ways, Averil,” 
he said. “If Willard isn’t right in his mind, I suppose 
something could be done with him-” 

“It’s just that one thing,” Averil replied, “and I 
don’t believe any outsider would think he wasn’t right. 
And besides-” she faltered. 

“It would all come out.” Alec finished what she 
shrank from saying. 

“Yes. We can’t have that, can we?” 

“No.” Alec brooded, shifting in his chair. He had 
not come near to her. “If we could only get Bert away 
—that’s the main thing now. You and I, Averil, we 
have to take what comes to us.” 

“Yes. Oh, Alec, hurry! What are we going to do 
about Bertie?” Averil was wringing her hands dis¬ 
tractedly. They must make the most of their few min¬ 
utes together. 

“Well, he can’t stay with me,” said Alec, enumerating 
possibilities. The one thing which he most wanted was 
discarded first. 

“That would be the worst thing in the world.” 

“We couldn’t make some excuse to have him stay 
here with Mrs. Hunt?” 

“How would it look? And, of course, Willard—oh, 
no! that wouldn’t do.” Averil spoke despairingly. 

“Can we send him off to school somewhere?” asked 



THE LAKE 


133 


Alec, in desperation. “You can say the country school 
ain’t good enough for him—that it’s too far, or that 
Bert has some sickness, or something.” 

Averil looked dubious. “We can try it,” she said, “but 
I wouldn’t know where to send him.” 

“I can find out a place, some way,” said Alec. “That’s 
the only thing I can think of now.” 

“It seems hopeless.” Averil leaned back in her chair, 
shutting her eyes. “I’m sure Willard would never hear 
to such a thing. He’d only go on worse than ever.” 

McLean sat opening and shutting his hands. He 
groaned. “If I could only have the little chap with me!” 

“I wish you could.” Averil sat drooping. McLean 
was starting from his chair to come to her, when Libbie 
Hunt entered the room. Her plump face was beaming, 
and she appeared not to see the sudden change and per¬ 
functory expressions on the faces of her callers. 

“We’re going to have coffee, Mr. McLean,” she said. 
“You’ll stay, won’t you?” 

“No, thanks. I’ve got to go on,” said Alec. He could 
not lift the cloud from his brow. He moved absently 
toward the door. “I’ll take a look at the root-cellar, 
and if it needs more banking, I’ll send Gundersen over.” 
He nodded to Averil without speaking. She did not know 
how she got through the rest of the afternoon, nor how 
she summoned courage to go back to the house beside 
the lake with Willard Faraday. 

******* 

That evening, after Bert had gone to bed, Averil said, 
trying to make her voice sound natural. “I’ve been 
thinking about Bertie, Will.” 

“Uh?” returned Willard, taking off his shoes beside 


134 THE LAKE 

the stove. “Thinking about Bert? Well, what about 
him?” 

“It’s hard for him to go to school—that long walk in 
the cold-” 

“He gets a ride with the Jensens most every day,” 
Willard answered wonderingly. “And a little cold don’t 
hurt a boy. It does him good.” 

“It’s pretty hard,” said Averil. Bert had been eating 
an apple, and the core lay on a plate. She went to put 
it into the stove, leaning over to hide her face. “And 
the school here is sort of poor. Couldn’t we send him 
off somewhere to school, Will?” 

The man straightened up in his chair, his mouth open. 
“Send him off somewhere to school,” he repeated. “Good 
Lord! What’d we do that for?” 

“Why, to make it easier for him—to give him better 
schooling than he’s getting here.” Averil knew that what 
she was saying sounded foolish. 

Willard made a hissing noise of contempt. “You’re 
crazy,” he said; “batty in the top story. Send the kid 
off to school! Who do you think he is? Who do you 
think we are—millionaires? I don’t want to hear another 
word o’ such rot. Send him away to school,” he rehearsed 
the phrase mincingly and with laughter. “That’s the 
end of such tom-foolery.” 

“All right,” responded Averil. Her heart was beating 
heavily. There was something so aggressive and bully¬ 
ing about the man that she had no strength to argue 
or demand. She waited till he had gone upstairs, and 
then gave way to tears; but they were soon over, because 
they seemed so useless and unmeaning. 

In bed, she lay thinking while the cold snapped in the 
rafters of the old house. If she could only think of 


THE LAKE 


135 


some way of getting Bertie into a safe place! She went 
over the suggestions which Alec had made. McLean’s 
house was nearer to the school than the boy’s own home, 
and that fact might be offered as an excuse for a visit 
with a friend. But of course any hint of such a thing 
would make Willard more furious than ever. And as 
far as Libbie Hunt was concerned, she had all that she 
could do, without taking on anything else; and how 
could one explain to the neighbours? 

Wasn’t there something else to be done? Oughtn’t she 
to run away somewhere, and take Bertie with her? Alec 
would give her the money,—there would be no other way 
of getting it. But where could she go? And what chance 
would there be of keeping her course concealed, so that 
Willard would not follow with anger so uncontrollable 
that tragedy would ensue? 

Perhaps it would be better to stay, and try to keep 
things calm and settled, pay as little attention as pos¬ 
sible to Willard’s fits of anger, and let him see that he 
was working himself up for nothing at all. Perhaps she 
had been indulging in ridiculous forebodings. Possibly 
there was no danger to any of them. Probably they were 
as safe here as anywhere. She could not see anything 
to do but to stay where she was, and keep Willard paci¬ 
fied, if she could, by the most circumspect behaviour, 
the most rigid observance of what would please him, and 
the avoidance of what would make him enraged. She 
would try to keep Bertie from being alone with his 
father—with Willard—and protect him as much as she 
could. 

Before she went to sleep, another solution came to 
her, as it had come before. Should she take still another 
way? Should she quietly eliminate herself from it all? 


136 


THE LAKE 


There was a black airhole in the lake, out in front of 
the house. She could go out some evening, when no one 
knew where she was going, and slip in there, under the 
ice. It would be a long time before they found her. If 
she were gone, perhaps Willard would be satisfied, and 
would let Bertie and Alec alone. Perhaps after a while, 
Alec would find a way of doing something for Bertie, 
even of having the boy with him. But even in the midst 
of these thoughts, she sank back trembling and un¬ 
nerved. She didn’t want to die. She didn’t have the 
courage. It was too horrible even to think of—slipping 
down into the cold water, under the ice—the darkness— 
the struggle—no, no! It was out of the question. She 
fell asleep in the very reaction of her relief at abandon¬ 
ing the fearful idea. 

******* 

One grey Sunday afternoon, not long after, Willard 
took the Bible from the table in the parlour. He had 
been dawdling all the morning, reading old papers, whit¬ 
tling a new knob for the kitchen cupboard, washing and 
dressing himself, shaving, rummaging in the secretary 
drawers. Averil had prepared a dinner of chicken and 
dumplings, and other things which he particularly liked. 
But in the afternoon he began to glower and scowl and 
bite his lips. Averil noted the signs with a sinking heart. 
She had hoped to get through the day without trouble. 
Hubert was colouring scenes in an agricultural paper, 
with his water colours. He felt that if the pictures were 
farm scenes, with plenty of horses and cows and pigs 
and reapers and steam plows, he could not be accused 
of doing something which would brand him as a sissy. 
He had drawn the old cherry table up to the window, 


THE LAKE 137 

and was absorbed in his work, his shoulders hunched, 
his tongue showing a pink tip between his teeth. 

Averil wondered as she saw Willard take the Bible 
from its place on the stand in the corner. She saw him 
running through it, searching, prying here and there for 
something which, in his ignorance, eluded him. Then 
he found it. He bent over the book on his knees, read¬ 
ing slowly, with terrible earnestness. 

What is it? What is it?” she kept asking herself. 

Listen. Willard held up his hand in a prophetic 
manner. “Listen. I’m going to read you something.” 
Averil sat holding her hands together in her lap. Bert 
scarcely looked up; he was so absorbed in his painting. 

Willard began reading out in a loud voice the story of 
the sacrifice of Isaac. “And Abraham stretched forth 
his hand and took the knife to slay his son.” Willard 
put out his hand, as if to seize a knife by the hilt. Averil 
caught her breath. Hubert, paint brush in hand, sat 
open-mouthed, listening in an amazed way. Watery red 
paint dripped down from his brush. Willard stopped, 
looking straight before him. “To slay his son,” he re¬ 
peated; “a sacrifice for sin. That was the only way—a 
sacrifice—something to wipe it out.” 

“But Willard,” interposed Averil, her fingers clutching 
one another tightly, “there’s more to it. You haven’t 
read it all. There was a sheep or something caught in 
the bushes. He didn’t have to sacrifice the boy.” She 
had raised her voice as if she were talking to a deaf 
person. 

Willard shook his head. “The rest don’t matter,” he 
said. “Abraham stretched out his hand and took the 
knife-” 

“Nonsense!” cried Averil sharply. Feminine im- 


138 


THE LAKE 


patience all at once overcame her fears. She began to 
laugh hysterically. Willard fixed her with a bewildered 
eye. She went over to him, and took the book out of 
his hand, still laughing. She pulled it away from him, 
though he hung on for a moment, like a child. “How 
silly!” cried Averil, “reading that old story, and only 
reading half of it, at that. Bertie, go on back to your 
painting. This doesn’t concern you.” 

“But—but”—Willard stammered—“the sacrifice.” 

“Sacrifice nothing,” retorted Averil. “You go out and 
sacrifice some of that kindling in the shed. “I want a 
fire in my room upstairs.” 

Blinking, Willard went out to the shed. She heard him 
breaking and splitting the kindling into the small pieces 
which she liked. Her heart stood still when she recol¬ 
lected that she had, as it were, put the hatchet into his 
hand, a weapon for the sacrifice. But he came back 
docilely enough, with his armful of pine splinters. That 
was the way to deal with him, she thought. But it had 
been an inspiration. She did not believe that she could 
handle him in that way again. 


CHAPTER VIII 


The winter was a savage one, almost arctic in its 
severity. It was only by constant slavery to stoves 
that the old house could be kept warm. The summer 
kitchen was abandoned, and used only for storing kind¬ 
ling wood, household utensils, meat, and such groceries 
as would not be injured by the cold. The dining-room 
now became kitchen and living-room for the family. 
The large pantry situated between the spare bedroom 
and the summer kitchen gave ample room for dishes and 
food and supplies. 

A range, new the winter before, served for both cook¬ 
ing and heating, in the living-room. In the front room, 
or “parlour,” a wood stove was kept burning most of the 
time, and another in Averil’s room upstairs. In the 
rooms which Willard and Bert occupied, a fire was 
lighted only at bed-time. On especially cold mornings, 
they ran down in their night clothes, and dressed in the 
front room, before the fire. 

As in most such households in the Middle West, the 
question of fuel was of prime importance. It was usual 
to be “forehanded,” and prepare the stock of wood a 
year in advance, so that it might be thoroughly sea¬ 
soned by the time it was wanted. Large freshly-cut 
green “chunks,” which burned slowly, were used to keep 
fires going all night. Midwinter was the time when 
trees were felled and cut into four-foot lengths, so that 
139 


140 


THE LAKE 


they might lie out all the next summer in the ripening 
heat, and be ready in the autumn for use or sale. 

Willard Faraday and Alexander McLean had had for 
years the custom of helping each other with the wood¬ 
cutting. It was cold lonesome work at the best; and the 
plan of working together at the wood-chopping had 
become so settled that neither Willard nor Alec could 
devise an excuse for breaking the custom. 

During the week between Christmas and New Year’s, 
Bert was at home, since there was no school in the 
holiday season. The wood-chopping was going forward, 
after the interruption of Christmas and Sunday. The 
weather was so fiercely cold that the men could put in 
but a short day at the felling; but even so, Averil sent 
them hot coffee and doughnuts or turnovers, in the 
middle of the forenoon, and again in the afternoon. 
Sometimes they built a fire in the snow, at which to 
warm themselves. 

It was a bright, crystalline, frigid day, almost the 
last one in December. Averil made the afternoon’s 
coffee for the two men, who were out in the far grove, a 
long way behind the barn, and beyond the tamarack 
swamp. She could hear the faint sound of their axes, 
as she poured the coffee into a stone jug, and packed it 
warmly into a basket, for Hubert to carry. 

Bert set out, with the heavy basket on his arm. He 
was warmly dressed, in his reefer and muffler and mit¬ 
tens, but the cold cut avidly through his clothes. The 
wind was keen and slashing. He tramped along the 
against the pale hard sky. He thought of the time, 
not so very long ago, when he and Uncle Alec were out 
narrow wood road, looking up at the tops of the trees 
in the woods, and there was a warm golden colour over 


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141 


everything. How different it was now! How long the 
winter was! It had hardly more than begun. The snow 
would lie on the ground till March or April. Even in 
the latter days of April, it would not be melted in the 
dark places under the hemlocks, or on northward knoll- 
sides in the woods. 

The forest seemed almost devoid of animal life. Here 
and there a jay flashed its bright blue wings across the 
snow, or chickadees crowded berry-loaded shrubs. 

Hubert could hear the sound of one axe, but presently 
it stopped. He went padding on down the rough path 
toward the place where the two men were working. He 
paused, listening, for he heard voices raised as if in 
dispute. Then he perceived that it was his father’s voice 
that carried the note of anger. It was high, strident, 
accusing. The voice of Alec was lower, expostulating 
and pacifying. Hubert could not hear what they said. 
He did not like the sound of things, but he did not know 
why. As he came nearer, he heard his own name— 
Bert. Then he heard an oath, a crash, a groan, a hor¬ 
rified exclamation. Alec was saying, “Will! Willard!” 
in a voice of horror and amazement. Hubert pressed 
forward through the bushes, instead of going around by 
the path. He looked out upon the open space where 
great oaks and maples had been felled and mutilated. 
He saw the black remains of a fire, the tree with half 
its branches lopped, at which the men had been work¬ 
ing. His father lay in the snow beside the tree. He 
was huddled in a queer way, and Alec was bending over 
him, shaking him by the shoulder, and saying, “Will! 
Will!” in a tone of desperate entreaty. But his father 
did not move. Then Bert saw that there was blood 
upon the snow, spattered in hard red drops. 


142 


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He dropped his basket, and uttered a cry which made 
Alec raise his head and stare. “Bert, come here,” he 
said, when he had recognized the boy. Bert drew near, 
holding back, yet fascinated by the sight of the dark 
inert form upon the snow. “Your father’s hurt,” said 
Alec hurriedly. “A limb fell on him. See.” There in¬ 
deed lay a broken branch, its jagged edge showing where 
it had been severed from the trunk. “He’s awfully hurt, 
lad.” Bert, gazing transfixed, without seeing much, was 
aware that his father lay with his axe beside him, as if 
it had dropped from his hand when he fell. His fur 
cap had slipped back, and there was a mark showing 
on his forehead. His face was not all to be seen, for 
it was turned sidewise, and partly concealed by his 
collar. 

“Won’t he wake up?” gasped Bert stupidly. 

Alec shook his head. “I can’t rouse him,” he said, 
and his own face was as white as a man’s can be. There 
was a huskiness in his throat. “If he stays here, he’ll 
freeze. You go and tell your mother that something has 
happened to your father. Tell her—tell her-” 

“I’ll tell her he’s dead,” said Hubert, shaking all over. 

“Maybe he isn’t.” Alec leaned over and pulled the 
collar away, so that the face of the prostrate man could 
be seen. Hubert, looking at the face in the snow, and 
the face above it, knew that he had spoken truth.. 
McLean straightened up, commanding himself with a 
supreme effort. “We’ll have to get him up to the house,” 
he said, moving his hands vaguely. The boy was stupe¬ 
fied with fright and horror. “Listen, Bert. You’ll have 
to go up to the house and get your sled, the big one I 
gave you last year, and tell your mother that your 


THE LAKE 


143 


father’s hurt, and have her telephone for somebody— 
for Mart Hendricks or Gundersen, and for old Doctor 
Frame. We can’t wait to get a doctor out from town.” 
The boy stood trying to control the heaving and shaking 
of his body. His eyes were blinking, and his lips were 
moving without sound. “Can you understand?” asked 
Alec, clutching at his shoulder. 

“Yes. I’ll go.” Bert roused himself and turned to¬ 
ward the forest. 

“Get the sled, and have your mother telephone,” re¬ 
peated the man. “I wish I could go and tell her. You 
wouldn’t stay here?” 

“No, no!” Hubert backed away. 

“Then run.” 

The boy ran, stumbling and panting through brush 
and snow. He took the shortest way he could think of, 
regardless of tangled briers and fallen logs. He fell, 
scrambled up, and fell again. He was covered with 
powdery flakes from overhanging branches, and torn by 
maliciously projecting thorns. He hardly thought at 
all. One thing only existed in his mind, the awfulness 
of the white-faced man lying in the snow, in a thin 
spattering of hard red drops. 

He was almost exhausted when he reached the farm 
yard, and ran up behind the barn and through the 
shovelled path to the shed door. He pushed open the 
door, rushed through the cold summer kitchen, and 
stamped into the room where his mother was sitting. 
The afternoon sun was waning. She was sitting beside 
the window, holding something in her hand and looking 
at it. It might have been a picture in a case; Hubert 
did not stop to see. He stood in the middle of the room, 


144 


THE LAKE 


breathing in long groaning gasps and crying out, “Mama, 
pa’s hurt—down in the woods. He’s killed, I guess. Oh, 
mama, I guess he’s killed.” 

Averil started up, and the object which she was hold¬ 
ing slipped into the pocket of her apron. Her face was 
wild. “Killed!” She stood staring, incredulous, her arms 
spread back in a motion of bewilderment and denial. 
“Oh— how?” 

“A tree fell on him—a limb or something.” The boy 
sank into a chair. “I ran and ran. Alec said to bring 
the sled—and telephone for—for Mart Hendricks and 
Doctor Frame. He said to hurry.” 

At first Averil could not move. “Killed!” She steadied 
herself against the table. She closed her eyes, trying to 
think, to pray. What disaster was this that had come 
upon the house? Was it a double disaster, more ter¬ 
rible than death? What had Alec- 

“Hurry! Ain’t you going to telephone?” asked Hubert, 
getting to his feet. 

“Yes, yes!” She ran to the telephone, got the number 
with difficulty, and called a neighbour, telling him as 
calmly as she could that Willard had been hurt, out in 
the wood-lot Then she called the old doctor in the 
village. He had virtually retired from practice, hated 
going out in the cold, refused all country calls if his 
conscience would let him. Yes, he would come, he told 
her, but he would have to wrap himself warmly, and get 
someone to drive him. He had given up his driver for 
the winter. Yes, yes, of course he would come. 

Averil turned away from the telephone. Then she 
remembered Libbie Hunt. “I’ll come right away,” said 
Libbie, over the wire. “I’ll get ready and hitch up the 
horse as fast as I can.” 


THE LAKE 


145 


Averil was reaching, distracted, for wraps and 
overshoes. “Get your sled, Bertie. It’s in the wagon- 
shed. My coat! my scarf!” She wrapped herself as 
best she could, running back at the last for mittens. 
The day' was bitter cold. Then she and the boy started 
through the woods with the sled. They found that they 
must keep to the road, because the sled would not go 
through the brush. They ran, struggling and lunging, 
and pulling at the rope. Averil stumbled on the frozen 
hummocks of grass. Tears froze on her cheeks. 

“He’s dead,” said Bert as they paused once for 
breath. 

“Maybe not,” said his mother, with stiff lips. “Maybe 
the doctor-” 

They went on. It seemed hours before they came to 
the opening in the woods where the trees had been felled. 
Blue smoke wavered through the clearing. Alec had 
rebuilt the fire. He had cut boughs from a spruce, and 
laid Willard upon them, to keep him from the frozen 
snow. Willard lay stark, unmoving. His cap was over 
his face. 

“Alec!” Averil came groping toward him, her eyes 
suddenly blinded, whether with faintness or tears she 
did not know. She swayed. He held her, unsteadily, 
with low words of courage. Hubert hardly saw them. 
He was staring at the figure on the ground. “How was 
it?” whispered Averil. “Oh, Alec, not—not-” 

“A branch fell,” said Alec, harshly. “Didn’t Bert tell 
you?” 

“Yes, yes, but I thought-” 

“Averil, we must keep hold of ourselves,” said Alec 
in a peremptory voice. “There’s work to do. The first 
thing is to get him to the house. He’ll freeze here. If 


146 


THE LAKE 


there’s any life left-” But they all knew that there 

was not. “Come, can you help?” 

“Yes.” 

They lifted Willard, a heavy weight, in his mackinaw 
and shoe packs, and put him on the sled. It was too 
short, but Alec laid branches across the front, to make 
it longer. “Bert, you’ll have to hold his feet; Averil, 
his head,” Alec directed. It was a strange caravan: 
Alec pulling the heavy sled through the snow, over rough 
humps and hollows; Averil supporting the shoulders and 
head; Hubert tugging at the feet when the body rolled. 
Their faces were nearly as white as that one which 
showed its waxy colour under the fur cap, the mouth 
open and teeth protruding. It was a fearful journey. 
Hardly a word was spoken. Averil heard herself breath¬ 
ing in gasps, as if the sound came from someone else. 
Hubert made little grunting cries as the sled lurched or 
slid along the way. By the time they reached the more 
open road behind the barn, Martin Hendricks met them, 
a dumpy man in long ’coon coat and clumsy arctics. 

They got Willard into the house, and stretched him 
upon the cot couch in the front room. His heavy woods¬ 
man’s shoe packs showed from the door where Hubert 
peeped, quaking. They did what they could, with 
ammonia and aromatic spirits, and hot bricks, and 
things like that; but it did not need the shaken head 
and pursed lips of old Doctor Frame to tell them that 
Willard was gone. 

After that, Averil and Hubert went upstairs, to Averil’s 
room, where a fresh fire was snapping in the sheet iron 
stove. People were doing things downstairs, Hubert did 
not know what. Averil lay on the bed, with her face 
hidden, and Hubert sat in the rocking chair, still wear- 



THE LAKE 


147 


ing his reefer, for the room was slow in warming. He 
was nervous and shaken, and he broke his resolve about 
crying. He sobbed, with repressed hard sobs that hurt 
his throat. 

He noticed that there was need of more wood. The 
fire had been hastily built, of slender bits of kindling. 
With a word to his mother, he went down, after some 
substantial sticks. 

Libbie Hunt was going to and fro in the dining-room 
and parlor. She had a withdrawn look upon her face, 
as if she were communing with something higher than 
the mortals about her. When Bert came back from 
the shed with his armful of wood, he heard her saying in 
her steady way, “You’ll make out a certificate, won’t 
you, Doctor?” 

Old Doctor Frame, a tall grizzled old man, with steel 
spectacles hanging precariously on his nose, stood in 
the doorway of the parlor. “Mm, why, yes, I guess 
so, Mrs. Hunt,” he said. “Of course, you know, the body 
ought not to have been moved, until somebody had seen 
it. But I understand,” he amended hastily, “that Alec 
wanted to get it to the house as soon as he could, on 

account of the cold—in case-” He coughed. “So it’s 

all right—under the circumstances.” 

“We don’t need an inquest, do we?” asked Libbie, 
using the word that the others had shied away from. 
Alec came from the front room, and stood leaning against 
the wall. 

The doctor looked Mrs. Hunt in the face. “N-no,— 
no, I don’t think so,” he replied. “We all know Alec.” 

“Yes, we all know Alec,” said Libbie Hunt. 

Alec stood unmoved. His face had not regained its 
colour, but he held himself superbly under Control. 


148 


THE LAKE 


Hubert, looking at him, wondered if that were Uncle 
Alec, the man with the drawn yellowish face and the bent 
shoulders and the stiffly folded arms. The boy stood 
transfixed, with his sticks of wood, not realizing his 
burden nor his design. He felt that there were things 
going on about him which he did not comprehend. He 
was like a person in a foreign country, who hears a 
language which he cannot understand, and of which he 
gains an inkling through signs and gestures. 

Mrs. Hunt came up to him and put her arm around 
his shoulders. “You’d best go upstairs, Bertie,” she 
said. “Take the wood up, and see if your mother’s all 
right. I’ll come up as soon as I can.” 

Bert went up the narrow stairs between the walls. 
Averil, her hair dishevelled, her face discoloured with 
weeping, half rose from the bed. “Bertie, did you see 
Alec?” she asked. 

“Yes,” answered Hubert, putting the wood into the 
painted wood-box. 

“How does he look?” 

“All right, I guess,” said the boy, opening the stove 
door. “Kinda queer and whitish, but-” 

“Did—did you hear anything, about—about what 
they’re going to do?” Averil slid off the bed, and came 
over to him. She took hold of his arm with a hard 
grasp. She did not notice that the boy cringed. 

He stood blinking and trying to recollect. “I heard 
Mrs. Hunt ask the doctor if he would make out a 
’stificut, or something-” 

“A certificate—yes. Did he say that he would?” 

Hubert, stirring the coals in the stove, glanced up at 
his mother, and saw that she looked scared and wild. 
“Yes,” the boy answered. “He said he would.” 



THE LAKE 


149 


“Was there anything said about an in—inquest?” 
Averil faltered at the word. 

“Yes, I guess so. Doctor Frame said, ‘We all know 
Alec.’ ” 

“ ‘We all know Alec,’ ” Averil repeated slowly. “You 
mean—he would give the certificate?” 

Hubert nodded, squirming away from the grip of her 
hand on his arm. “Oh, Bertie, did I hurt you?” she 
murmured contritely. She turned and dropped upon the 
bed, quivering. The boy regarded her uncertainly. He 
did not know whether he had better go or stay. He 
built up the fire, so that it roared and glowed. 

Libbie Hunt came upstairs. She lighted a lamp, 
though the dusk was just descending. She patted Averil’s 
hair, and said low soothing things that Hubert did not 
hear. “Mart Hendricks is going to drive to Prattsville,” 
she said in a louder tone. “The wind’s coming up, and 
it looks like a storm. If he don’t start now, maybe he 
can’t get through.” Hubert dimly guessed what Mr. 
Hendricks was going to town to secure. 

Now the neighbours began driving over, through the 
snow, to visit the house of death. Some of them brought 
things to eat—cold roast meat, and mince pies, and 
doughnuts making greasy marks on the sides of the con¬ 
taining paper bags. They asked eager questions—too 
many questions, Hubert thought, when he heard them 
at supper time. Libbie answered them in her steadfast 
way, without a shadow of uncertainty or confusion. 
Alec went home when he had done all he could. Before 
he went, he spoke to Bert with words of encouragement 
and compassion. “You’re all right, lad. You’ve come 
through it fine,” he said. Hubert looked up at him grate¬ 
fully, “It’S a help to have you so—so brave and good.” 


150 


THE LAKE 


Alec put out his hand and let it slip along the boy’s 
sleeve. Then he added, “Would you like to come home 
with me, for a while?” 

Bert shook his head. “No, I guess I’ll stay with 
mama,” he replied. 

“That’s best,” Alec agreed, and went away. He was 
to come back later, it seemed. Libbie Hunt and some¬ 
one else were to sit up all night. 

Libbie Hunt carried Averil’s supper up to her, and 
did endless little things for the comfort of the household. 
It was she who slipped the hot flatiron into Hubert’s 
bed at half-past eight. The night bade fair to be a 
bitter one. Before he went to sleep, Averil came and 
kissed him. She was calm now, but he could not see 
her face in the dim light. He slept at last, but not 
soundly. In the night he heard the wind roaring in the 
hemlocks, wailing and swishing the branches along the 
roof. The cracking of the rafters and the noises of the 
storm mingled with the muffled sound of voices and foot¬ 
steps. He was aware of someone driving into the yard, 
guiding his horses through the dark, and of something 
heavy being brought into the house. 

When he waked in the morning, the window panes 
were thick with frost, so that the light in the room was 
grey. The shriek of the wind had not abated. The 
frozen boughs of the hemlocks still scraped back and 
forth upon the roof. It was cold in the room, and Hubert 
could see his breath in a dense cloud upon the air. 

Slowly the remembrance came to him that his father 
was dead. Bewilderment and horror gave place furtively 
to relief that there would never be anything to fear from 
Willard again. Struggling to escape such wicked 
thoughts, Hubert sat up, shivering. He saw the red scar 


THE LAKE 151 

on his hand, yet unfaded, and the feeling of relief came 
over him once more. 

He could smell coffee, and hear voices, subdued but 
persistent. His mother came into the room. She was 
haggard, yet composed. Her black hair was done up 
smoothly, in its usual coronet fashion. She wore her 
thick blue jersey over her woollen dress. She went to 
the bedside of the boy, and patted his cheek. “It’s a 
bad morning, Bertie,” she said. “You must dress in my 
room. There’s a fire in there, and some hot water.” She 
looked at him fixedly. “We’re alone how, Bertie,” she 
said. 

“Yes.” He choked. Now, mixed with his relief, came 
the horror of death. Averil kissed him and held him 
close, and then went away. 

The next two days were full of misery. The storm 
raged incessantly, with varied but never ceasing moans 
and shrieks of wind, and with sweeping, drifting gusts 
and sheets of snow. Roads became impassable. The 
house beside the lake was shut in by an icy wall from 
the outside world. Libbie Hunt was there, doing every¬ 
thing, looking after everyone. Alec was there, too, al¬ 
most himself but visibly suffering. His face was stern 
and expressionless. There was little that he could do, 
except to attend to the stock and keep wood boxes 
filled. He and Averil did not try to speak to each 
other alone; perhaps they feared for their hold upon 
themselves. 

With Libbie Hunt, Hubert went in once or twice to 
look at his father. “He looks so quiet and rested,” said 
Libbie, “that I think you ought to see him. It’s better 
to remember him this way.” 

Willard was quiet indeed, remote, lofty, in his indif- 


152 


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ference. Hubert, gazing at him, could scarcely conceive 
this transformation from life and activity to stunned in¬ 
sensibility. It was terrible, but wonderful, too; for Wil¬ 
lard seemed dignified and superior, above and beyond 
them all. Hubert thought of his father as he had seen 
him with his face twisted with anger, his hands twitch¬ 
ing and shaking. Here he lay, peaceful, resigned, rested, 
free from his hatreds and his passions. The boy was 
awed and silenced. Libbie Hunt, a little frightened at 
his immobility, wondered whether she had done wrong 
in bringing the child into this cold oppressive chamber; 
but she decided that it was the natural and human thing 
to do. 

The young minister came, his head tied up in a 
woollen scarf. He made a long prayer, which seemed to 
Hubert a mere jargon of words. 

It was arranged to bury Willard in the little grave¬ 
yard on the shore of the lake. The reasons were sev¬ 
eral. The Faradays owned no lot in the little village 
cemetery at Wellwood. It was remotely situated, and 
reached only by means of a long lane, now drifted full 
of snow. The condition of the roads made all travel 
next to impossible. The task of reaching the cemetery 
and making necessary preparations in the storm, to say 
nothing of providing a proper funeral procession, would 
be a strain on energy and endurance. Besides, Willard’s 
expressed wish that he might be put into the lake-side 
graveyard was strongly present with Averil and 
Alexander. 

“It would be so much easier,” said Mrs. Hunt. “But 
if you think you can’t stand it, Averil, don’t do it. We 
can manage the other, somehow.” 

“I can stand anything,” said Averil in reply. 


THE LAKE 


153 


And so, cn the second afternoon of the great storm, 
they took Willard out on the sleigh as far as the horses 
could flounder, and thence on the shoulders of men, Alec 
McLean among them. The little party stumbled and 
struggled through the snow. Around them were the dark 
figures of the hemlock trees, and the wide greyish stretch 
of the frozen and snow-covered lake, with its mounds 
of laden bushes along the bank. The muffled human 
forms stood numb and voiceless. The wind, whistling 
in the treetops, almost drowned the voice of the young 
preacher as he lifted it in prayer to a Power that had 
never seemed more distant than on the day of tempest 
and murderous cold. 

When they came back the fires in the stoves were 
burning brightly. The odd smell had gone from the 
house, which is now in its usual order. A little luncheon 
was set out on the table, with hot coffee for everybody, 
and doughnuts and cheese. People spoke with less sub¬ 
dued tones than before. 

Alec’s eyes met AveriPs in one long look. They had 
not dared to look at each other until this time, and had 
spoken only in perfunctory phrases. Hubert saw the 
look, but it meant nothing to him, except that it made 
him feel safer and comforted. 

He passed the door of the front room, and saw that 
everything was as it had always been—the cherry table 
with the books on it, and the sofa and the organ, and 
the plush rocking chair, which had been pushed out of 
the way. He felt happier, almost cheerful. The storm 
was as bad as ever, but its sound was different. He ate 
plentifully. People began to go away. He went and 
sat down with some copies of the Youth’s Companion, 
Libbie Hunt was washing the dishes, and his mother was 


154 


THE LAKE 


wiping them. Uncle Alec came in to say good-bye. He 
would come over to-morrow, he said, to see what he 
could do to help. 

Hubert did not know that late that night Alec McLean 
came, back, fighting and panting through the storm. 
Averil heard him at the side door. She opened it, the 
lamp-light streaming through the falling snow. Alec 
leaned against the door-jamb, in a posture of weariness. 
She took him inside. He held her in his arms, straining 
and shivering; her face was against the coldness of his 
cheek. Then he loosed her and went away again. There 
had been scarcely a word between them. 



BOOK II 



\ 








CHAPTER I 


Now came calmer days, days full of quiet and un¬ 
eventfulness; the feeling of waking after nightmare. 
The storm passed, the drifts subsided, men dug their way 
about, or made devious roads through fields less deeply 
buried than the highway. School began again, the tiniest 
pupils missing, but the older ones in their places, red as 
to cheeks, chapped as to hands, and oddly swathed and 
layered as to garments. 

Averil and Hubert were left alone. There was no one 
who could stay with them. Libbie Hunt had given more 
time than she could spare to the needs of the Faradays. 
John-Benjy had fretted for her, even in the company of 
Caddie and Grampa Gleason. Mrs. Hendricks, a tired, 
complaining woman with a brood of young children, 
would have been but wearisome company if she had been 
able to leave her home and come to Averihs. Mrs. 
Jensen had children, too, and she was a foreigner; she 
and Averil had been only perfunctory friends. The 
neighbours had rallied to the assistance of the widow 
and the orphan in the time of their great necessity; but 
now the woman and the boy must look out for them¬ 
selves. 

Averil did not resent the prospect of solitude. She 
had been much alone, and was not afraid, either by day 
or night. Yet it was with a sense almost of despair 
that she saw Hubert setting out for school on the Mon- 
157 


158 


THE LAKE 


day following Willard’s death. She kissed the lad, forc¬ 
ing back her tears. “I’m sorry you have to be here 
alone, all day,” he said, faintly discerning her misery. 

“I’m all right. I have my work,” she said. 

But after all the work was of small importance. She 
had the rest of the winter for doing it. She shut the 
storm door quickly, after Hubert had gone; the cold 
darted in at every opening, as if waiting its chance. She 
went and stood at the window in the front room, and 
watched Hubert go down the road, where the snow was 
piled three or four feet deep along the sleigh tracks. 
The Jensens were to pick him up in the “bob-sleigh,” 
somewhat farther along. It was early yet. The sun 
was not high, but it made a dazzling glitter on the snow. 
Blue-white shadows lay in the hollows and behind fences 
and trees. The woods were cold purple and brown, in¬ 
termixed with the hard green of spruces and hemlocks. 
The sky above was a transcendent endless blue. The 
lake was only a flat white field, with here and there a 
black rift to show where an air-hole lurked. 

Averil did not let her glance stray in the direction 
of Willard’s grave. It was at some distance from the 
house, and hidden by trees and bushes. The tracks left 
by the small funeral party had long since been ob¬ 
literated. She turned away from the window, when 
Hubert had disappeared, and began such tasks as 
seemed possible and worthy of attention. Downstairs, 
only the two rooms and the big pantry were in use. The 
summer kitchen was used for storage, and the bedroom 
at the front of the house was closed. For one as deft as 
Averil, at household work, not much time was required 
for washing the dishes and tidying the rooms, already 
clean. The stoves, of course, needed incessant attention. 


THE LAKE 


159 


Averil missed the assiduous care which Willard had 
given to the heating of the house. She almost thought 
that she could hear him coming in from the shed, and 
that if she looked up she might see him standing there 
with the dry, smoothly split sticks in his arms. She 
hoped that she would not find herself getting “jumpy” 
and “seeing things.” 

She and Hubert had been out to the barn, and had 
fed the stock and milked the cow; in fact, she had done 
the milking, a cold repulsive task which she detested. 
She had shut her teeth, and gone ahead with it, because 
it had to be done. She had learned how to milk, in times 
past, in case Willard were ill or absent, but she had 
seldom been forced to put her ability into practice. She 
was glad now that the job was over for the day. All 
she had to do was to take the fowls their hot mash of 
small potatoes and oats and table-scraps. She wrapped 
lerself warmly and went out to the chicken-house. As she 
stood beside the barn, looking off into the woods, she 
remembered, too poignantly for endurance, the day on 
which she and Alec and Hubert had brought Willard in 
on the sled from the woodlot down there beyond 
the tamarack swamp. She hurried into the house, 
where she could at least be warm and secluded. She 
looked at the clock, noting that the hour was only 
ten, and that she still had the greater part of the day 
before her. 

She went upstairs, to do what was needed, and to get 
some half-finished patch-work from a drawer in her 
room. Here the silence and the emptiness of the house 
seemed more oppressive. The door to Willard’s room 
was closed. Libbie Hunt had been in there, but Averil 
had not wanted to step inside. There were things which 


160 THE LAKE 

must be packed up or given away; but that sort of 
ordeal could wait. 

Downstairs, at her needlework, within the warm radius 
of the base-burner, she had too much time to think. 
Alec, she knew, would accept the convention that he 
and she must not be much together for a while. Some 
time—in a few months, a year—they would be together 
every day. But a year seemed a century, and these 
coming winter months at least half that time. Well, 
she would make the best of them, keep a good home for 
Hubert, do all she could for him, tend the fires, care for 
the stock, occupy herself with household tasks and 
needlework and reading. She would put her bedding 
into good condition, make new bed linen, towels and 
curtains, try her hand at some braided rugs. She hardly 
admitted to herself as yet where she expected to use these 
things. 

It was after her early and fragmentary luncheon that 
the telephone rang, startling her so much in the enclosing 
silence that she dropped a saucer and broke it. She 
went to the telephone. Martin Hendricks was speaking. 
He and Alec McLean were coming over that afternoon 
to talk with her about settling up the estate. Some men¬ 
tion had been made of this plan, before, but nothing 
definite had been arranged. “All right/’ and “Thank 
you,” said Averil. She had shrunk from facing these 
demands of law and order, but she steeled herself to deal 
with them as justly as she could. 

It was not until the men were at the door, in the early 
afternoon, that she was sure of what she wanted to do. 
When overcoats and mittens and mufflers and arctics 
had been removed, and the council had begun, she was 
ready with what she desired to say. 


THE LAKE 


161 


“As long as Willard didn’t leave any will,” Hendricks 
began, “you know the law gives you only a third. The 
other two-thirds go to his child.” 

Averil nodded. “I know that’s the law,” she said. 

“It’s a slow, tiresome business, I guess,” said Hen¬ 
dricks. “I remember what a time we had when my 
father died without leaving a will. It was as slow as 
molasses in January. So I guess you’d better go right 
at it, Averil, and get it settled up. You’ll have to get 
a lawyer at Prattsville, and as long as that’s the county 
seat, you’ll have to go there, anyway.” 

Averil stole a glance at Alec. He sat leaning back 
in his chair, with his legs crossed, apparently at ease. 
Averil could see, in the uncompromising sunlight, how 
he showed the ravages of what had taken place within 
the last ten days. His high colour was gone, his eyes 
had dark lines under them, his temples were perceptibly 
grey. 

“I’m willing to start in right away, if that’s proper,” 
she said. “But I don’t want to bother with dividing 
what there is up into thirds and two-thirds. I want to 
sign the whole thing over to Bertie.” 

Alec frowned, still not speaking. Hendricks looked 
disturbed. “Do you think that’s right, Averil?” he said 
anxiously. “Maybe you feel that way now, because 
you’re all worked up, and maybe you’ll be sorry and 
wish you’d done different, a few months from now. We 
don’t want to let you do anything you’ll be sorry for.” 

“I shan’t be sorry. I want to do it,” answered Averil 
quickly. 

“But-” Hendricks began, in a worried way. “What 

do you think about it, Alec?” 

“Well,” said McLean slowly, “I guess it’s all right. 



162 


THE LAKE 


Probably she knows what she wants to do. I don’t 
doubt she’s thought it over. She’ll have to be appointed 
guardeen until Bert’s of age, won’t she? And there must 
be some way of her getting enough to live on, as long 
as—she needs it.” 

Hendricks shook his head. “It don’t seem good sense 
to me. This giving good property away to children 
ain’f got anything in it, to my mind. You’ll be sorry 
you’ve done it, if I’m any judge.” 

“I want to do it,” said Averil. Perhaps she was rash. 
But she didn’t want to keep anything of Willard’s 
except what she positively needed, for the shortest pos¬ 
sible time. She didn’t care what anybody said or thought. 

“All right. All right,” said Hendricks. “I just wanted 
to give you the best advice I could.” 

There was some talk about the lawyer to be chosen, 
and a few other details, and then came the plans for 
conducting the farm, and the arrangements for the winter 
and spring. 

“Wouldn’t you like to go into the village to live, for 
the rest of the winter?” asked Alec. “I guess it could 
be fixed up. We could take over the stock, among us. 
It would be easier for you, and easier for Bert to go to 
school.” 

“That’s a cracking good idea!” exclaimed Hendricks, 
before Averil could speak. He looked in admiration at 
Alec. 

But Averil shook her head. “There’s the potatoes in 
the cellar,” she said, “and other things to look after. 
I'd better stay here and keep things going.” 

“The potatoes’ll be sold as soon as the weather is 
warm enough to haul ’em,” answered McLean. 

“No knowing when,” Averil made reply. “And any- 


THE LAKE 


163 


how, I don’t want to move.” She shrank from uprooting 
herself from among the things she knew, and going as 
a boarder into the house of someone else. “It’s out of 
the question.” 

“Just as you say,” returned Alec. He kept his per¬ 
sonal preference, whatever it was, out of his voice. “I 
believe you could get Charlie Jensen to help you once a 
day with the milking, and taking care of the horses, 
and I’ll send Gundersen over when I can, at night, for 
a turn or two at things.” 

“We can get along,” said Averil stoutly. “Hubert 
will have to learn to do what he can, and I’m strong 
and well. There isn’t any reason why we shouldn’t be 
all right.” 

“Well, you’re the one to decide,” Hendricks admitted. 
“I don’t see anything to do but make some sort of plan 
for working the farm.” 

They discussed the prospects, deciding which fields 
should be rented outright, which worked on shares, which 
needed fertilizing, what pastures should be retained, 
how the hay should be divided;—in short, how the world 
could go on without the hard endeavours and furious 
toiling of Willard Faraday. 

“I suppose you’re well stocked up with stuff for the 
rest of the winter,” said Hendricks solicitously; “wood 
and hay and grain, and meat, and odds and ends in the 
cellar.” He knew that Willard was forehanded, and that 
winter provisions were not likely to be lacking. 

“Yes. We could live till spring without poking our 
noses out, if we didn’t have to have a little tea and 
coffee and soda and sugar once in a while,” Averil 
replied. 

“You’ll get them things all right/’ Hendricks re- 


164 


THE LAKE 


sponded; “any of us can bring ’em to you from town 
when we’re goin’; and then when the roads gets better, 
you can easy drive down yourself, of a Sat’day.” 

“We’ll all see that you’re looked after,” added Alec. 
He had not said much, and had been careful to keep the 
conversation as impersonal as he could. 

It had not taken long to arrange Averil’s affairs for 
the year. The men went out to look over the bams, 
and see what attention should be given to buildings or 
animals. Presently they were gone, and the afternoon 
was waning. Averil wrote her letter to the lawyer at 
the county seat, and then began her preparations for 
supper. 

******* 

Averil took pleasure in cooking a hot meal for Bertie, 
with a special dessert which he liked. This homecoming 
of his, after the long lonely day, was to be her great 
event, the one thing which she could surely count on 
with rejoicing. He came in, puffing and red-faced, as 
dusk was falling. He stamped snow over the floor, and 
she ran to sweep it up. She would have liked to kiss 
him, but refrained, lest he should think she considered 
him a baby. 

After supper, she let her dishes stand unwashed on 
the pantry shelf, while she read aloud to him a thrilling 
story from a young people’s weekly. She would never 
have left the dishes in that way when Willard was in 
the household. She washed them when the story was 
finished, and Hubert wiped them. Then Averil took 
down the corn popper from the top shelf in the pantry, 
and the shelled popcorn, in a tin box, safe from the 
depredations of mice. 


THE LAKE 


165 


They popped the corn over the hot coals in the front 
room. Back in the living room, Averil melted butter to 
pour over the great white flakes. 

Suddenly Hubert spoke. “It’s nice here without papa, 
isn’t it?” he said. 

Averil stood beside the stove, with the little skillet in 
her hand, holding the melted butter. She was transfixed. 
Her wide eyes looked strangely upon the boy. She did 
not reproach him, but she seemed startled and guilty, 
as if someone had detected her in a wrong deed. “Well, 
it is,” Hubert went on, defending himself against a pos¬ 
sible accusation of hardness of heart. “Of course, I’m 
sorry that he had to—to die; but I’m glad we don’t have 
to be afraid of him any more.” 

The woman drew in her breath. Her eyes were somber 
as she proceeded with her task. She could not strictly 
say that she was not afraid of Willard any more. She 
poured the butter slowly over the popcorn, and mixed 
it with a spoon. Bert stood by, his face thoughtful. 
“Why did he act like that, mama?” he asked, in a lower 
voice. “Why did he get so mad?” 

Pain flitted across the face of his mother. She was 
about to say, “I don’t know.” But she could not say 
it. “He suffered,” she answered reluctantly at last. “He 
was unhappy. He thought things. Oh, let’s not talk 
about it, Bertie!” Her voice was a cry. “Hadn’t we 
better let him stay quiet, and stop thinking about how 
terrible things were?” 

“Maybe,” said the boy. He was awed by her emotion, 
which he supposed to be grief. He took a handful of the 
popcorn, and munched it. His mother refused to eat 
any, and sat down close to the lamp, with some of her 
careful stitchery. Bert got out the paper, and began 


166 


THE LAKE 


reading over some of the exciting parts of the story which 
they had just read; and he tried to enjoy the popcorn. 
But he kept thinking of his father and his fits of anger; 
of the day when he had smashed the dishes, and thrown 
away the watch. How odd it was to think of the watch, 
a little silver and glass thing, away down under the ice, 
in the cold water and the dark! Hubert wished there 
were some way of getting it out, now that his father 
was gone, and could not be angry over it. He considered 
the possibilities of a grappling hook, a rake on a rope, 
a magnet, even. At last, however, he gave them all up 
as hardly feasible. He reflected that now or after a 
while, he could speak to Uncle Alec about it, and ask 
his opinion as to the process of retrieving the watch. 
He hardly admitted to himself the hope that Uncle Alec 
might give him another watch, since there was now no 
one to object. 

He tried not to think of his father. And yet his 
mother’s words kept recurring, “Hadn’t we better let him 
stay quiet?” She had not chosen her words, but to the 
lad there was something sinister in the phrase, as if by 
talking about him, they could bring the dead man stalk¬ 
ing out of his place in the snow, and prowling around, 
to plague them. 

Hubert was too young to analyze his emotions. His 
first feeling at the time of Willard’s death had been 
horror; and then relief had followed furtively, not at 
once acknowledged. His unthinking acceptance of Wil¬ 
lard’s place in the household, and the man’s spasmodic 
show of affection, had impelled him to render to Willard, 
in some degree the due of a father. But the occurrences 
of later months, and particularly the episode of the beat¬ 
ing and the burned hand, had almost totally alienated 


THE LAKE 


167 


him from Willard Faraday. Though not fully aware 
of the danger in which he dwelt, Hubert had felt a re¬ 
pugnance for the man who held the family in the grip 
of his wrath, who terrorized a woman and a boy by 
his outbursts of rage. And so, when this man was gone, 
and an air of serenity, if not of cheer, replaced the 
atmosphere of gloom and apprehension, Hubert was 
relieved and nearly happy. It was good to know that 
he need not come home to a scowling face, or to threats 
or beating. It was good to know that his mother need 
not run the risk of cruelty. He did not know how close 
he had come himself to being a “sacrifice,” nor that he 
was as a brand plucked from the burning. 

He wished he didn’t have to think of the picture which 
his mother’s words had conjured up, of a restless and 
vindictive spectre, out among the hemlocks, or peering 
in at a crack below the curtains. He dug his elbows 
into the table cloth, and kept his eyes fastened on his 
paper. When bed-time came, he could hardly bring 
himself to go upstairs, and he was glad when his mother 
remarked that she would go up with him, and take his 
warm flat-iron—he was always clumsy with it—and 
start the fire in her own room. He heard her in her 
room for a little while, and was asleep before she went 
downstairs. 

The next morning, as if she had divined his thoughts 
about the watch, Averil brought out Willard’s silver 
watch, with its silver chain and dangling cat’s-eye orna¬ 
ment. She held it up before the boy as he arose from 
the breakfast table. “Would you like to have this?” 
she said, her eyes questioning his face. 

He stood irresolute, gaping. He took in every detail 
of the watch, a heavy old-fashioned thing, with the 


168 


THE LAKE 


masculine-looking chain and pendant. For a moment he 
was lured. But he shook his head. “No, I don’t want 
it,” he said. “Thank you just as much. I don’t want 
it.” 

“Isn’t it the kind you want?” asked Averil stumblingly. 

“It’s good enough,” he answered, unskilled in words. 
“It’s fine. But—I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t enjoy it.” 

“I see.” Averil saw indeed, but she had hardly thought 
the boy mature enough to scruple to take the watch, nor 
emotional enough to shrink from it because it had been 
Willard’s. 

Hubert stood frowning and gulping. He was think¬ 
ing of the time when his father had made him go to bed, 
when Uncle Alec was there. No, he didn’t want the 
watch. 

“Oh, well,” said Averil. She went to put the watch 
into the drawer of the secretary. She was glad that 
Bertie did not want it. She felt that she could not bear 
to see him pulling it out and looking at it; but she was 
willing to do her duty and offer him the watch. Willard 
had lived austerely. There were few personal posses¬ 
sions for anyone to claim. She had offered the boy this 
relic of her husband’s life, and he had refused it, and 
she would be glad never to speak of it again. 

******* 

Bert and Carraline, coming home from school, got out 
of Mr. Jensen’s sleigh, at Mrs. Hunt’s gate, and ran 
into the house. They went in at the door of the ell, 
stamping on the porch, and banging the storm-door with 
their impetuous entrance. They went through to the 
kitchen. It was warm and fragrant there. Mrs. Hunt 
was baking gingersnaps, and John-Benjy, eating onfe 


THE LAKE 


of the spicy brown discs, was standing beside Grampa 
Gleason’s chair, between the stove and the window. 
There were traces of tears on the child’s face. The old 
man was whittling an axle for a miniature cart on the 
floor, a vehicle which had evidently suffered disaster. 
Caddie pressed a sounding kiss on the child’s hard wet 
cheek. Mrs. Hunt beamed a greeting at both the young 
people. 

“Have a cookie, Bert.” Mrs. Hunt held out a plate, 
generously piled. Bert took the brown cake with mumbled 
thanks, and set his teeth into it. He sat down, watching 
the woman at work, and the old man whittling and con¬ 
soling the little boy. 

“This cart’s goin’ to be as good as new, and I don’ 
know but what better,” Mr. Gleason said, his old face 
crinkling with pleasure. “And it’ll last a long time yet, 
prob’ly till you’re as big as Bert, here. And by that 
time you’ll be doin’ a lot of things, yourself, just as 
Bert does. He shovels the paths for his mother, don’t 
you, Bert?” 

“Yes, sir,” answered Bert, very polite. “I do now. 
I never did, much, till just lately.” 

“Well, John-Benjy’s goin’ to shovel paths for his 
mother before long,” the old man continued. “But 
now Grampa has to shovel ’em. See, Bert, the paths I 
shovelled.” He jerked his thumb toward the long deep 
ditches of snow in the yard, leading to barns and clothes 
reel and outhouses. “I tell you, Grampa is some good 
yet, at jobs like that.” 

“You are so,” said Mrs. Hunt, rising to the occasion. 
She knew how proud the old man was of being active 
and useful. “I never saw anyone as strong as Grampa 
for his age—or for much of anyone’s. He’s as strong as 


170 


THE LAKE 


a man of twenty-five, and he can dig like a steam 
shovel.” 

Bert looked impressed, finishing his cookie, and accept¬ 
ing another from the ready hands of the hostess. The 
old man laughed triumphantly. In his earlier days, his 
strength had been prodigious, and he welcomed every 
intimation that it was not lost. 

“You're a regular Sampson, Grampa!” laughed Cad¬ 
die. He grinned at her affectionately, over the little 
boy’s head. 

Hubert liked the friendly talk, the easy harmonious 
atmosphere. The narrow circumstances of the family, 
their makeshifts and renunciations, were as nothing to 
him. The plump and vivacious Libbie, the wistful old 
man, the red-cheeked inarticulate little boy, the lively 
good-tempered girl, were all sweet to him for what they 
meant of kindliness and companionship. Unwillingly he 
made a motion to go. He knew that his mother would 
be looking for him. 

“Can’t Caddie come home with me?” he asked, with 
sudden inspiration. Caddie jumped and glowed, looking 
anxiously at her mother. 

“Yes, I guess so,” said Mrs. Hunt. “Want to go home 
with Bert, Caddie?” 

“Sure; I’d love to,” Caddie answered quickly. “But 
I hate to leave you with the work, mother.” 

“The supper’s on the stove,” returned Libbie, “and 
there isn’t much else to do. But how’ll you get back?” 

“I think Mr. McLean is going to send Henry Gunder- 
sen over after a while, to do some things for mama,” 
ventured Bert. “If he don’t come, she’ll have to stay 
all night, I guess. You don’t care, do you?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Hunt slowly. She liked to have Car¬ 
oline at home. “I guess I’d better telephone to Alec 


THE LAKE 


171 


and see whether Henry’s going or not.” She found 
that he was; and Hubert and Caddie hurried into their 
wraps and departed in a whirlwind of giggles and good¬ 
byes. 

They tramped sturdily through the snowy roads, in 
the early dusk. Caddie’s bright eyes twinkled under a 
crocheted scarf, tied over her shapeless little felt hat. 
Her feet were in old woollen stockings, pulled on over 
her shoes, and encased in rubbers. Arctics, which would 
have been the right thing in that weather, were too 
expensive. 

They found plenty to say, regarding their own affairs, 
and school, and the other boys and girls. As they came 
within sight of the Faraday house, Caddie said, slowing 
her pace, “It must seem queer without your father.” 
She had not been at the house in the time of storm and 
stress, because she had to stay at home with the old 
man and the little brother, and because (though she did 
not know it) Libbie would not for the world have brought 
her into contact with death and horror. She had been 
over only once, and then hurriedly, when Alec McLean 
had driven in with some frozen mutton and some Danish 
dainty which his housekeeper had made. 

“It is kind of queer,” the boy returned. After a pause 
he said, “It ain’t so awful bad.” He wanted to tell 
someone how he felt about it. 

Caddie seemed to understand. “I s’pose it isn’t,” she 
responded. “Your father acted funny sometimes, didn’t 
he? You never knew what he was going to do.” 

“Yes,” Bert confessed. “Mama and I was real afraid 
of him sometimes.” He could feel Caddie’s eyes, wonder¬ 
ing and sympathetic, in the dusk. “We didn’t tell,” 
he said. 

“No, there’s no use in having folks talking.” Caddie 


172 THE LAKE 

had learned from her mother the undesirability of neigh¬ 
bourhood gossip. 

“I thought I’d have to shoot him if he went after 
mama again,” the boy said. 

“Oh!” Caddie almost screamed. “You shouldn’t talk 
like that.” 

“Well, I did think so,” said Hubert doggedly. He felt 
a bit ashamed, and yet he was proud to have impressed 
the girl. “But mama threw the revolver into the lake, 
so I couldn’t, ever.” 

“I’m glad she did,” sighed Caddie. “It would have 
been too awful.” 

“Yes.” They trudged on. 

“Another thing that’s queer,” said Caddie, “is thinking 
of your father out there beside the lake.” Bert nodded. 
Caddie had touched upon something which was to him 
almost beyond speech. “It’s right out there where we 
went for our picnic last summer. I mean, we went right 
past it. Would you like to have any more picnics out 
there?” 

“I don’t know.” Bert was alarmed at the thought. 
He had merely pictured the snow piled up in drifts, and 
the sagging pickets of the fence thrusting out their points 
m a square. It had not seemed as if there would ever 
be any summer again. “I guess we’ll have to find some 
other place.” 

“It’s real nice right down in the yard, without going 
any farther,” ventured Caddie. 

“But it don’t seem like a picnic ’less you go off some- 
wheres,” objected Bert. 

“There’s lots of places,” Caddie returned. “It’s fine 
over on the Chain. Don’t you like it over there?” 

“Uh-huh,” Bert agreed eagerly. “Me and Uncle Alec 


THE LAKE 


173 


was over there last fall, before it was froze up. It was 
great. I’d like to go there a lot next summer.” There 
would be no one now, to scowl and rage when he got 
home. 

“That was the time-” began Caddie. She stopped. 

“What?” 

“When you hurt your hand-” 

“Yeah.” Bert looked down at his mitten, red in the 
gloom. “It’s all right now.” 

There was a pause, and then Caddie said in an awed 
tone, “Do you think your mother’s glad he’s gone?” 

“I don’t know.” Bert meditated, scuffing in the snow. 
“She don’t act glad, or anything hardly at all.” 

“Maybe she wouldn’t dare say so if she was—were.” 
Caddie corrected herself. She was trying hard to use 
good grammar. 

Hubert considered. “Prob’ly she wouldn’t,” he said. 

“Do you think,” asked Caddie in a suddenly grown¬ 
up way, “that she made a mistake in marrying him?” 

Hubert twisted his head, a process made difficult by 
the tightness of his woollen muffler, and gazed open- 
mouthed at his companion. It was almost too dark to 
see her, yet a white radiance from the snow revealed 
her face. He felt stunned and abashed. He had never 
thought of anything like that before. Made a mistake! 
He had never thought about people’s marrying. They 
just were married. How they happened to be so was a 
mystery which he had not even considered. He accepted 
a state of matrimony in others just as he accepted the 
weather or the house he lived in, or anything else which 
seemed like one of the fixed facts of nature. Mistake! 
The word struck him dumb. He did not answer, and 
Caddie waited in vain for his opinion. 



174 


THE LAKE 


They were nearing the house now, which showed as a 
darker shadow under the hemlocks, with squares of 
yellow light where the windows stood. They were at 
the pebbly place in the arc of the shore, where Bert had 
hunted for polly-wogs, in the summer. He felt that he 
had aged a great deal since then. Polly-wogging ap¬ 
peared childish sport indeed. ‘Til race you to the 
house,” cried the boy, for want of something else to say. 

They started running, and dashed through the gate, 
left open now in this snowy weather, because there were 
no cattle or tramps to find an unwelcome way within. 
Bert stubbed his toe on a frozen tuft of grass, and fell 
headlong, and Caddie forged ahead of him. She flew 
to the door-step like a bird, laughing and giggling at 
his discomfiture. He was humiliated, but rather glad 
that she had won. He wanted her to win, and yet he 
would not have had the courage to give her the triumph 
by wilful loitering. 

Puffing and blowing they stumbled into the house 
through the side door. Hardly anyone but the minister 
used the front door, which opened upon the veranda over¬ 
looking the lake. 

Averil smiled a welcome as they came bursting in. 
Now Caddie was the prim girl again, instead of the 
laughing hoyden. She remembered that she was getting 
on toward young ladyhood, and she felt, too, the oppres¬ 
sion of recent death in the house. She made polite in¬ 
quiries about the horses and the pigs and the poultry, 
and about Averil’s needlework, which lay upon a chair. 
She helped to set the table, with quick useful motions. 
Bert, awkward and useless, stood about, trying to keep 
out of the way of the two swift-footed women. He 
washed his hands at the bench behind the door, and made 


THE LAKE 


175 


shift to set the lamp on the table, and pull up the chairs. 
He joined in the cheerful talk as much as he could, 
enjoying the warmth and the good food and the un¬ 
wonted liveliness of the meal. It certainly was nice to 
have Caddie in the house. When she drove away in 
the dark with Henry Gundersen, it seemed somehow as 
if a light had been turned down. The winter darkness 
and silence around the house seemed more than ever 
depressing. 


******* 

On Saturday, Martin Hendricks took Averil into 
Prattsville to see her lawyer about settling up the estate. 
Hubert went along, wrapped and muffled like an Eskimo 
against the cold. He scarcely ever got as far as the 
county seat, and this trip was a momentous event. The 
weather had moderated, but was still unpleasantly chilly. 
The two passengers were stiff and shivering by the time 
they reached the town. Mr. Hendricks, in his coon- 
skin coat and fur cap, was more comfortable than they. 
The town was bleak in the grey light of winter noon. 
Hubert stared greedily at the red brick court house, 
standing in the open square, with pairs of black Civil 
War cannon protruding from the snow. Along the street 
were two-storied brick buildings, shops and restaurants, 
the bank, the Elks’ Hall, the Danes’ Home. 

The boy felt a thrill when they drove up to the hotel 
on the corner of the main street. “We might as well 
go in here,” Mr. Hendricks said. “There’s a place to 
sit and get warm, and dinner won’t cost us much more 
than it would at the restaurant.” It was very elegant to 
walk into the upstairs parlour, furnished with plush 
chairs and sofa, and heated from iron grills in the floor. 


176 


THE LAKE 


They threw off outer wraps and warmed themselves, and 
smoothed their hair. The eyes of Hubert devoured the 
steel engravings on the walls, the long looking-glass, 
the electric lights with pink glass shades. 

Averil felt disheveled and ill-dressed. Her hat was 
a dark blue one which she had worn for two winters, 
and it had been pulled out of shape by scarves tied over 
it in frigid weather. Her clothes came usually from 
mail-order houses, and she wore them a long time. She 
had not provided herself with any mourning garments, 
and did not mean to do so, making her isolation her 
excuse. 

She went at once to the office of the lawyer, for a pre¬ 
liminary interview. Hubert walked up and down in 
front of the hotel, feeling important, as if many people 
were looking at him. He was interested in everything 
that he saw. After a while his mother came back, and 
Mr. Hendricks appeared from the harness shop across 
the street. Dinner was a magnificent and somewhat 
terrible experience: trying to understand what the wait¬ 
ress said, and telling her what one wanted. Bert found 
that Mulligatawny soup, for all its long name, was not 
so different from what he had at home; but he also 
discovered that apple pie with ice cream on it, in winter, 
was something strangely delectable. 

All the afternoon he prowled in stores, the public 
library, the court house. He had the feeling of the 
dweller in the country who catches wistful glimpses of 
grandeur and diversion in the town, from which he is 
unaccountably cut off. His mother had given him two 
dollars. He spent them with alternations of recklessness 
and caution, and went home loaded with bundles, like 
a belated Santa Claus. 


THE LAKE 


177 


Averil’s experience opened her eyes to the ramifications 
and peculiarities of the laws governing inheritance. She 
found that she could only begin the processes needed for 
the transfer of Willard’s earthly possessions to the hands 
of Hubert. She had set her hand to the task, and would 
not give it up. More and more she was settled in her 
decision to take nothing from Willard except a temporary 
living and a small wage for the care of the farm and its 
belongings. 

Hubert rode home dreamily, under the warm robes, 
thinking of what he had seen and bought; but he was 
after all richly contented to clamber out of the sleigh, 
and stumble into the shelter of home, with the dark 
coming on, the mystery of a house left for hours un¬ 
tenanted. He had not the momentary shrinking of Averil, 
who found herself wondering confusedly as to what un¬ 
bodied presence had hovered in the rooms while she was 
gone. She was thankful for the practical voice of Martin 
Hendricks, saying, “I’ll go in and see if your fires are 
all right, before I jog on.” She was glad that it was 
Hendricks and not herself who opened the door and 
stepped first into the darkening living room. 


CHAPTER II 


Averil was a good deal alone. In the morning, on 
week days, she arose early enough to get breakfast in 
good time, and send Hubert off, well-looked after, with 
his tin dinner pail. Then she washed the dishes and 
made the two beds, and swept and dusted. These simple 
tasks did not take her long. Sometimes she dallied at 
the work, or made some elaborate dainty for Hubert, 
when he should arrive from school. She finished the 
patchwork which she had long ago laid aside, and used 
it for the top of a tufted quilt. She made fresh com¬ 
fortables for the beds, sending to a mail-order house for 
challis of soft pleasing patterns. She sewed rags for 
carpets and braided rugs. And furtively she began mak¬ 
ing new towels, with embroidered ends or crocheted inser¬ 
tions; and pretty serviettes, and hemstitched pillow¬ 
cases and lace trimmed camisoles. It was like the work 
of a prospective bride. She took pleasure in her careful 
stitches and the neat perfection of her handiwork. She 
sat beside the stove in the front room, where the winter 
sun shone on the lake and the low sloping front yard, 
with its tracery of leafless shrubs and trees. There was 
nothing to see but snow and sky. From the side window 
she could catch a glimpse of the road beyond the lane, 
but it was not often that anybody passed. So seldom 
did a sleigh go by that it was hardly worth while waiting 
178 


THE LAKE 


179 


to see one. She could not even see the smoke from 
another chimney, though the Hunt house was not more 
than three-quarters of a mile away. 

Although there was in Averil’s heart the bridal hope, 
she was much of the time unhappy. She did not deceive 
herself into thinking that she felt real grief for Willard. 
Such deception was impossible. But she was not so 
heartless as to fail in understanding the tragedy of the 
man’s life, a tragedy more poignant than his death. She 
thought with aching futility of the suffering which had 
been his, the twinge of resentment, the stab of suspicion, 
the murderous pang of jealousy; then the uncertainty 
and shame, and self-abasement. She wished now that 
she had told him the truth, so that his anguish might 
have been that of certainty, not of mystery and fear. 
It would have been fairer to him, she thought. But then 
the quick perception came, it would have been fatal, too. 
Somebody might have paid for her frankness with a life. 
Perhaps it would have been the boy. She shivered, pic¬ 
turing the catastrophe, with its accompaniments of 
scandal, imprisonment, separation, emptiness. No, it 
was better as it was, even though Willard suffered for 
the guilty, even though- 

Here her thoughts always halted, horrified. What, in 
actuality, had been the manner of Willard’s death? She 
had never dared to ask Alec what had happened on that 
day in the forest. He had never told. Everyone else 
had accepted with apparent docility his story of the fall¬ 
ing branch. “Everybody knew Alec,” and attached to 
him no suspicion, or dared to whisper none. But she 
knew Alec, too. She knew his love for Hubert, his 
thwarted impulse of fatherhood, his fear, even while 
he belittled hers, that Willard might do fearful violence 



180 


THE LAKE 


to the lad. She tried to visualize the scene in the woods, 
the cold, the snow, the two men with their axes, the 
falling trees, Willard spewing out the bitter word, held 
so many years in his throat; prating of sacrifice, threat¬ 
ening perhaps; a combat, triumph of the stronger, death. 

Sometimes a more hideous scene rose before her; isola¬ 
tion, temptation, attack upon an unsuspecting com¬ 
panion, a swift sudden blow, the foulness of murder on 
the pure winter air. But this picture she must perforce 
put from her with a convulsive motion of her hands. 
She would rise from her chair, walk through the rooms, 
stare out of the windows, go to the barn to look after 
the stock, feed the stoves anew with fuel, search out 
harsh household tasks—do anything to keep the vision 
from her mind. When it came in the night, it was worse. 
She must get up from her bed in the cold, turn up the 
lamp, which she kept burning for company, prowl about 
the desolate house, sew, read, find some distraction from 
the dread of what she might some day discover. 

It was at these times that she was most sentient to 
the proximity of Willard’s grave. It was then that 
Willard seemed menacingly near. She hated herself 
for her childishness, but she could not for her life refrain 
from pulling the shades down closer to the window ledges, 
to shut out a peering face with a mark upon the forehead. 

Hubert slept peacefully now, unconscious of his 
mother’s unrest. Averil felt that she ought not to be 
so alone. She knew that this state of isolation need not 
last long; but while it lasted, her solitude was to have 
phases of the unbearable. And later, when it should 
have ceased, there would still be times like these, when 
fear of the hidden truth would rack her. She would 
never dare to ask Alec for the details of Willard’s death, 


THE LAKE 181 

and like Willard himself, she would always suffer the 
agonies of uncertainty and suspicion. 

It was after these wakeful nights that she most wel¬ 
comed the wholesome intrusions of Libbie Hunt and Car- 
raline, that she rejoiced in the teasing and chuckling of 
the two young people at their lessons or their fun; that 
she reassured herself with the brooding calm of Alec as 
he sat smoking beside the stove. 

Caddie came as often as she could to the house, en¬ 
couraged by her mother, who had Averil much in mind. 
The boy and the girl got on well together. Caddie was 
a year older, and correspondingly more mature, fler 
age gave an excuse for a little unaggressive mothering 
of Hubert, a small officiousness accepted without ques¬ 
tioning by the boy. Averil watched them with faint 
smiles of amusement, and sometimes a sober passing 
wondr as to what their attitude toward each other 
would be later on, when both of them grew self-conscious 
and self-willed. 

In the evening the two would sit for half an hour or 
so at the dining-room table, covered with its checked 
cloth, and study the lessons for the next day. Sometimes 
Carraline would stop to help Hubert over a hard point 
in his algebra or grammar. She did her own tasks quickly 
and quietly, with no complaints or muddling. She went 
at them directly, and finished them with despatch. “You 
don’t seem to have such hard lessons as I do,” said 
Hubert innocently, one evening. 

Caddie laughed. “I guess she picks you out for all 
the hard stuff,” she said teasingly. 

“Huh,” grunted Hubert, flushing, “I s’pose I am a 
bonehead.” As a matter of fact, he was far from that, 
but he was less interested in grammar than he might 


182 THE LAKE 

have been, and algebra was a meaningless juggling of 
symbols. 

In June, Caddie was to finish the country school, 
and then the problem would be, What next? Should 
she try to go to the high school, at the county seat, or 
should she give up going to school, and relinquish her 
hope for a real education? “I don’t see how mother can 
get on alone,” she said to Averil when they were talking 
the matter over. “She has so much to do, and so little 
to live on, and I can help her a good deal if I’m not in 
school.” 

“It would be hard for her without you,” admitted 
Averil. 

“If I went to Prattsville to school,” the girl continued, 
“of course I’d have to work for my board somewhere. 
We haven’t money enough to pay for my board, you 
know. It would be bad enough to have me away from 
home, without paying to keep me away,” she said rue¬ 
fully. 

Averil considered the question. It seemed impossible 
for Caddie to go away to school. She did not appear 
to have much before her except drudgery and isolation, 
as so many country girls and women have even in these 
later days. She would marry, probably, merely exchang¬ 
ing one hard situation for another. 

During these winter evenings, the young people were 
gay enough, after their lessons were done. They ate 
apples and made taffy and cracked nuts; and worked out 
puzzles, and played checkers, and put together cut-up 
maps and pictures, and read, and pasted cuttings into 
scrap books. They never seemed to lack for diversion. 
The chill seclusion of a country home on a winter night 
had no perceptible influence on their spirits. As for 


THE LAKE 


183 


Averil herself, she would have paced the floor in desola¬ 
tion, if it had not been for the cheerful presence of the 
children studying or giggling or arguing beside the lamp. 

******* 

Alec McLean sent Henry Gundersen over frequently, 
to help with the heavier tasks at the Faraday place; but 
He did not come oftener than once or twice a week, him¬ 
self, and then chiefly in the evening, when Hubert was 
at home. There was a tacit acceptance of a formal 
relation between him and Averil. Late in January he 
announced that he was going away for a while, making a 
journey back to New York State, perhaps venturing so 
far as New York City. 

“I need the change,” he said to Averil. “I wish you 
could get away, too.” 

“Of course I can’t,” she answered. “Bertie has to go 
to school. And I guess it’s better for me to stay right 
here.” She knew that Alec was getting away as soon 
as he dared after the tragedy. An earlier escape might 
have been adversely remarked. She was glad that he 
could go; for though he never lost his self-control, nor 
spoke of his own feelings, she felt that he was suffering. 
She kept to herself any comment which she might have 
made on his departure. 

“It’s good that Alec can go, isn’t it?” said Libbie Hunt, 
comfortably darning stockings in Averil’s front room. 

“Yes. He hasn’t been away in a good while,” said 
Averil. 

“A change is good for everybody,” commented Libbie. 
“And Alec needs it, if anybody ever did,” she added. 

Averil did not ask what she meant. There were times 
when she believed that Libbie knew everything—that 


184 


THE LAKE 


she had an uncanny way of seeing into the dimmer areas 
of all that took place, of discovering motives which their 
originators thought perfectly concealed. To-day, glanc¬ 
ing at the placid face over the ragged stocking, she won¬ 
dered, not without shrinking, as to how much Libbie 
really understood of the situation; and she conceded that 
it would be hard to hide much from the simple, wise 
penetration of Libbie. 

February dragged. Alec McLean was gone, and the 
two in the house by the lake missed the prospect of his 
carefully regulated calls. There was a note from him; 
a picture postal card or two for Hubert. There could 
not be many messages lest the rural mail carrier should 
discern their number, and carry news. Averil marvelled 
at the freedom which she felt in Alec’s absence. She 
wished now that he had gone away oftener during the 
years which had passed. There would have been seasons 
of relief. She wished too that she could have gone. She 
and Willard had not taken many trips. Once or twice 
they had gone to the State Fair, once to the Governor’s 
inauguration at the Capital, two or three times to Min¬ 
neapolis. Willard had gone away once and left her, 
when he had been called back to New York State by 
family affairs. That was thirteen or fourteen years ago 
—not long after they had settled on the farm. Averil 
had acquired the habit of shutting out of her mind the 
remembrance of that period. 

At times, while Alec was gone, she diverted herself 
by imagining him on trains, at the houses of his rela¬ 
tives, walking in city streets. There were jealous mo¬ 
ments when she saw him meeting other women, compar¬ 
ing them with her, deciding perhaps that he could find 
someone more to his liking. She even entertained the 


THE LAKE 


185 


horrid thought, “What if Alec should desert me now? 
What if he should be tired of it all, and give me up for 
someone else?” This possibility was so appalling that 
she could not face it for more than a moment at a time. 

During the warmer days, the potatoes were sorted in 
the cellar, and sold. Gundersen took them into town. 
Martin Hendricks helped with the disposing of the grain 
and the hogs. These matters occupied some of AveriPs 
time. She sewed more busily than ever, and ordered 
more books and papers, even sent to her mail-order 
house for a little phonograph with a limited repertoire, 
of which Caddie and Bert never tired. Sometimes she 
drove over to Libbie Hunt’s, or down to the village, or 
went to bring Bert and Caddie home from school. 

Alec was back by the first of March. He looked about 
the same, Averil thought. She had expected some radical 
change in his appearance, indicating an escape from him¬ 
self. He brought only a few small gifts for Bert, to the 
great disappointment of the boy, who had secretly ex¬ 
pected a watch. He did not know with what renuncia¬ 
tion Alec had foregone the pleasure of a riot of gifts 
for those in the house at the lakeside. Caution was 
necessary and wise, even if it were painful. 

There was a gift for Averil, of which nobody knew. 
After she was sure that Bert was asleep, not before, she 
would slip the ring on her finger and look at it while 
she sewed. It was the quieting of a great fear. Alec 
had not met anyone whom he liked better. He had 
thought of her during his journeyings, and had brought 
her this pledge of his constancy. 

******* 

The formalities of setting the estate had been accom- 


186 


THE LAKE 


plished, after the usual delays. One day Averil said to 
Hubert, ‘'There! The last paper is signed. This place 
doesn't any of it belong to me any more. It all belongs 
to you." 

Bert looked up from his reading. His grey eyes were 
puzzled, and his forehead was ridged. “It don't belong 
to me, to do exactly what I want to, does it?" he asked. 

“No, maybe not," his mother answered. “Not till 
you get to be of age. Then you can do what you want 
to with it." 

“That's when I'm twenty-one," he meditated. “It's 
an awful long time yet." 

“Yes," Averil replied. “It is. And I'm guardeen till 
that time comes." 

“Oh, well, I don't see as it's any different," said the 
boy carelessly, and went back to his paper. 

He was not much impressed. For a minute he had 
felt big and rich. But it was hard to keep on feeling 
like that when things weren't any different, and weren't 
going to be for years and years. He forgot all about 
the matter, except at the rare times when it was men¬ 
tioned, or when some chance remark suggested it to his 
thought. 

He spoke of it to Caddie, of course. “Don’t you feel— 
all puffed up?" she asked, her eyes full of respect. 

“No, course I don't," he asserted. “Mama as good 
as has it for ages yet. She'll be living here for an awful 
long time, and I don’t see why I should act as if anything 
belonged to me." 

Hubert had grown taller and stronger in these last 
months. He threw himself more whole-heartedly into the 
life of school and home. He seemed to study more easily 
and to learn more quickly. His nervousness was almost 


THE LAKE 187 

gone. Release from fear had given him a newness of 
life. 

Warmer weather came on. The snow melted and ran 
off upon the lake. By night and day a rending and 
shivering told of the cracking of ice. Long black fissures 
appeared, widened, multiplied. The ice broke up, and 
became a rough grey moving mass. The air was sweeter, 
with the tang of winter gone. Hens cackled about the 
bam and yard. Averil, running out bareheaded for the 
eggs, felt the escape from prison which country folk so 
often know in spring. The gloom was lightened. 
Processes of being had begun over again, with more 
vitality, and with some promise of joy. 

******* 

Caddie regretted, in secret, every day of school that 
passed. The teacher was an amiable half-ignorant girl 
from a normal school in the county, but though she 
lacked amenities she kept good order, and let the older 
pupils work as hard as they liked. Caddie loved making 
a good recitation, loved writing out her neat exercises, 
looking up words in the dictionary, tracing trade routes 
on maps, reading the books of biography and travel which 
the school library afforded. It seemed as if she could 
not bear to give up the chance of learning, of knowing 
things, of being somebody as she mentally phrased it. 
But she did not say much. There was no use, and she 
did not want to vex her mother with futile complaining. 
So “next year” was scarcely ever mentioned. The de¬ 
mands of the moment occupied her speech. 

One day in the spring, Alec said to Averil, “IVe been 
thinking about Caddie—or Carraline as she likes to 
have us call her.” 


188 


THE LAKE 


“Yes?” said Averil absently. “She’s a nice girl.” 

“What’s she going to do next year, do you know?” 
asked Alec. 

“Why, stay at home, I guess,” was the reply. “Mrs. 
Hunt says she can’t send her away. She hasn’t the 
money, and could hardly spare her, anyhow.” 

“How would it do,” said Alec slowly, not without hesi¬ 
tation, “for me to send her to the high school in Pratts- 
ville? I could spare the money. The cows are bringing 
me in more than I ever expected. Caddie takes to educa¬ 
tion, better than most folks. What do you think?” 

“Of course I think it would be fine,” said Averil; “but, 
Alec, you know how people are. Wouldn’t there be a lot 
of talk?” 

“Oh, I don’t believe so,” Alec replied. “Everybody 
knows what kind of a woman Libbie is. And if that 
sneak of a Benje Hunt won’t do anything for his family, 
I don’t see why nobody else should.” 

“She thinks he’s perfect,” said Averil. 

“I’m not so sure,” Alec returned. “Anyhow, Caddie 
hadn’t ought to have to suffer.” 

“Where do you suppose he is all this time, Alec?” said 
Averil, her mind on the absent Benjamin. 

“The Lord knows,” McLean answered. “He told me 
he thought he’d go South for the winter.” His face re¬ 
laxed into a satirical smile. 

“How on earth—oh, well, it’s none of our business,” 
Averil sighed. She was sorry for Elizabeth Hunt, but 
in her opinion the poor woman was better off without 
her husband than with him. “Why don’t you say some¬ 
thing to Libbie about sending Caddie to school?” 

When Alec, a week or so later, made his halting sug¬ 
gestion, Libbie Hunt looked happy and confused. “I 


THE LAKE 


189 


hardly know what to say,” she stammered. “It’s lovely 
of you—perfectly splendid. I shan’t say anything to 
Carraline yet. We’ll talk about it again, before fall. 
I don’t know as I can get along without her.” 

“That’s the question,” Alec agreed. “Well, think it 
over. There’s lots of time yet.” There was, to be sure, 
plenty of time for a good many things to happen before 
September. This was only April, and the long summer 
was yet to come. 

******* 

Early one evening in April, Bert, coming home from 
the Hunts’, where he had been for supper, met a stranger 
on the road, a smallish, bearded man in a ready-made 
suit and a soft felt hat. He was carrying a shabby 
suitcase, and trudging along somewhat disdainfully, gaz¬ 
ing about at earth and sky. He gave Bert an abstracted 
glance from under the brim of his hat, but said nothing. 
Not till after he had passed did Hubert understand that 
he had seen the man before. When he arrived at home, 
he ran to speak to his mother. “What do you think, 
mama? Mr. Hunt has come back.” 

“My stars!” Averil was amazed and distressed. “How 
do you know, Bertie?” 

“I saw him going along the road, towards Mrs. Hunt’s,” 
the boy asserted. 

“Dear me, dear me,” said Averil, under her breath. 
“Poor Libbie Hunt!” 

At about that time, or a little later, Libbie Hunt was 
out in the grassy side-yard, taking in the clothes from 
the line. Beyond her stood a row of plum trees, their 
thin boughs flecked with bloom. A grape vine along the 
fence exhaled its wild fresh odour. Budding lilacs, 


190 


THE LAKE 


slenderly leafed, were massed about the house. The sky 
had the cool greenish tinge of spring, and a new moon 
hung over the horizon. Libbie Hunt, not a poetic woman, 
felt the exquisiteness of the evening, and the touching 
quality of her little house, set in this lovely scene. It 
seemed only a house of happiness, in spite of deprivation 
and toil. She could hear the murmur of voices; Carraline 
and Grampa Gleason were in the kitchen, where the girl 
was finishing the domestic work of the day. John-Benjy 
was in bed and asleep. With a sigh of restfulness, though 
she was tired, Elizabeth Hunt pulled a pair of pillow¬ 
cases from the line, rejoicing in the clean smell which 
they seemed to have caught from the outdoors. 

Indifferently she perceived a dark form, carrying a 
bag and moving slowly upon the road in front of the 
house. “Maybe Alec's getting another hired man,” she 
thought. “He needs one. Or maybe it's a tramp.” The 
man stopped, turned in at the wagon gate with its sag¬ 
ging posts. Libbie stood holding the pillow-slips in her 
hands. A shock and quiver ran over her frame. For 
a second she felt weak and faint. “Ben!” She spoke 
the name soundlessly. “He’s come back!” 

The man came up the wagon track, putting on jaunti¬ 
ness as he walked. “Well, hello, Libbie,” he called. 
“Here we are again.” His voice was mellow, not of the 
countryside. “I suppose you don’t know what a rare 
evening it is, old girl. You don’t care for anything but 
the washing.” 

Libbie sought for some sort of words to welcome him. 
“Why, Ben, I—I—you’ve been gone a long time-” 

“Not so very long,” the man returned, with an arti¬ 
ficial heartiness. “Glad to see me, eh? Going to kiss 
me?” He brushed her cheek with his beard. “Well! 


THE LAKE 


191 


Things look fine. It’s not such a bad country as I 
thought. I’m hungry, though. Got anything to eat?” 

Libbie had been standing as if stupefied. “Yes, I 
guess so,” she answered, trying to compose herself. There 
was always something to eat. She twisted her hands 
together. “I—I’m so surprised,” she was saying in a 
voice which shook in spite of her attempt at its control. 

“Come on into the house.” Benjamin pulled at her 
sleeve, and then took up his suitcase. They went in, 
leaving the half-filled basket of clothes behind on the 
grass. Libbie was unnerved and trembling. Carraline 
came to the kitchen door, and peered at them through 
the dusk. “That you, Carrie?” said Benjamin. “Do 
you know who this is?” 

“Father!” There was astonishment, but no joy in the 
voice of the girl. “Oh! So you’ve come home.” 

“Yes, I’ve come home.” The man was doggedly jovial. 
He was evidently enjoying the surprise, even the con¬ 
sternation, which his advent had caused. “Give us a 
kiss.” Carraline turned to him a dutiful cheek. “That’s 
the girl.” He stepped over the threshold of the kitchen. 
“Why so dark here? Let’s have a little light.” He set 
down his bag. The old man’s form showed against the 
window. A match flared. It was the efficient hand of 
Carraline which had lighted the oil lamp on the table. 
The yellow glow struck up toward the unsteady hands 
and the bewildered face of the old man. Benjamin gave 
him a gaping stare. “Ho! Mr. Gleason, is it?” he ex¬ 
claimed. “Making us a call?” He did not offer to shake 
hands. Mr. Gleason stood in recovered dignity, saying 
nothing. 

Libbie hurried to say, “Grampa is staying with us 
now. You didn’t know-” 


192 THE LAKE 

“Staying-” Benjamin continued to stare. “I don’t 

understand.” 

“He’s staying here—living here,” announced Libbie 
firmly. 

“Oh. Now I get it. He’s living here,” said Benjamin. 
There was a studied insolence in his manner. “A sur¬ 
prise, I assure you. I had no idea of this honour—none 
at all.” 

The old man shuffled uneasily, and his jaw quivered 
with his agitation, but he stood his ground, without 
speaking. “We like to have him here,” said Carraline, 
putting her hand on the old man’s arm. 

“In that case,” said Benjamin with exaggerated polite¬ 
ness, “we shall, of course, say nothing more—at present.” 
He bowed to Grandpa Gleason with a humourously in¬ 
sulting air. “Well, ladies, where’s that supper I was 
going to have? I don’t mind confessing that I’m raven¬ 
ous.” 

“We’ll get you something, right away,” said Libbie. 
With her hands busy, she could control herself. 

“A good many times, while I’ve been gone, I’ve thought 
of your cooking, lovely Libbie,” said the returned trav¬ 
eller. He went to wash his hands at the bench in the 
corner. Carraline began setting out dishes on the leaf 
of the kitchen table, while Libbie poked at the fading 
fire, and coaxed it with chips and kindling. The old man 
slipped away to his bedroom, with a mumbled good¬ 
night. 

Benjamin settled himself to wait, while the two 
women scuttled about, preparing his repast. “Was that 
Will Faraday’s boy I saw just now, on the road?” he 
asked. “Or perhaps should say”—he savoured the allu¬ 
sion—“was that Bertie Faraday?” 


THE LAKE 


193 


Elizabeth turned to him a face sedulously kept un¬ 
moved. “Yes, it was Bert, I guess,” she answered. “He 
left here a little while ago. Willard’s dead, you know,” 
she said after a pause. 

“You don’t say!” Benjamin stared. “Dead! Well, 
well.” He seemed to consider. “One never knows his 
luck,” he remarked. “So Will’s gone! Anything hap¬ 
pened since?” His voice was cynical. Libbie made no 
reply. She was pouring beaten eggs into a hot frying- 
pan. “Averil living there, just the same?” asked Benja¬ 
min again. “Nothing happened?” 

“No, nothing’s happened,” replied Elizabeth, with un¬ 
intended asperity. 

“Give ’em time,” said Benjamin with a laugh. Lib¬ 
bie clattered the lid of the tea-kettle, so that Caddie 
might not hear what her father was saying. “How’s the 
farm been coming, this last year?” the man went on. 
“Things looked pretty good as I passed the fields.” 

“Yes, things are all right—fences kept up, and all 
that,” said Libbie. “Of course, it’s too early to have the 
crops in yet.” 

“Hendricks and Furlong working things on shares?” 
asked Benjamin. 

“Yes,” answered Libbie. She lifted the edge of her 
omelet, and peered under at its delicate brownness. Ben¬ 
jamin asked more questions, and she made her brief 
replies with dutiful celerity. 

Then, as if he had just thought of the rest of the 
family, Benjamin asked, “Oh, how’s the boy?” 

“He’s fine!” Libbie’s eyes glowed. “He’s a sweet 
little fellow, Ben.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said the father. “I’ll see him in 
the morning. Must have grown a lot.” 


194 


THE LAKE 


“He has. He’s a real little man,” Libbie said tenderly. 
“He ain’t in school yet, of course, but he’s learned some 
of his letters from his blocks.” 

“You’re going to school, are you, Carrie?” asked Ben¬ 
jamin. 

“Yes, sir,” Carraline made answer, from the other side 
of the room, where she was cutting bread. 

“She finishes this June,” said Libbie, busy with the 
last stages of the omelet. 

“Oh! She finishes her education,” cried Benjamin 
jocosely, a smile spreading on his small bearded face. 
“Doesn’t need to know any more, I suppose?” 

Carraline winced, and her fingers trembled as she put 
the bread on a plate. “It mightn’t do me any good if 
I did,” she said. Her mother had not yet told her of 
Alec’s plan. 

“It’s just as well not to know too much,” remarked 
Benjamin. “I mean, for women. Sometimes one wishes 

that they had a bit of education, but after all- Now, 

that looks like a nonpareil of an omelet. If a woman 
can cook and use decent grammar, I don’t know that 
anything else is worth bothering over.” 

“It’s ready now,” said Libbie, without comment. Car¬ 
raline set a chair for the guest. He ate hungrily. The 
conversation was slight and perfunctory. 

When he rose from the table, he sighed as if with pleas¬ 
ant weariness. “I’m tired,” he said. “I need plenty of 
hot water, to clean up with. Let me have a lot. Any 
clean shirts here? All I have with me need washing.” 

“Yes, I think there’s one left, from the last time you 
was here,” said his wife, her tongue betraying her 
nervousness. 

“Were, my good woman— were” the man corrected 


THE LAKE 


195 

her. “It didn’t fit the old man, eh?” he inquired satiri¬ 
cally. 

“No, you’re smaller than he is,” said Libbie, filling a 
kettle with water from the big pail. Benjamin laughed. 
Carraline went out to the pump for another pail of 
water. Her face was flushed, and her lips were unsteady. 

When the water had been put on to heat, and the 
fire had been replenished, and the dishes cleared away, 
Carraline said primly, “I think I’ll go to bed.” She 
kissed her mother, said “Good night, father,” with 
ceremonious politeness. She left Elizabeth Hunt alone 
with her husband. 

******* 

The next morning, before Benjamin was up—he was 
a late sleeper—the old man said to his hostess, “Well, 
Libbie, I guess I’d better go.” 

“Go where, Grampa?” asked Libbie anxiously. She 
was heavy-eyed, and her face was less pink than usual. 

“I don’t rightly know,” said the old man. He spilled 
his coffee as he poured it into his saucer. “Somewhere, 
anyhow. Back to Almiry’s maybe, or-” 

“Oh, you can’t do that!” cried Libbie in alarm. “There 
isn’t any reason why you should go, Grampa. You 
know we love to have you here.” 

The old man tried to drink his coffee, but put it down 
again. “You and Caddie do,” he said. “But there’s one 
that don’t.” 

“Well.” Libbie could not protest. “I know, but-” 

“It makes it hard for you,” said Mr. Gleason. 

“No, I can manage,” said Libbie. She did not know 
how harassed her voice was. “Besides-” She hesi¬ 

tated. “It might not be for very long. You never know 



196 THE LAKE 

what he's going to do. He thinks it's a hard life 
here.” 

“He might stay quite a while,” the old man returned. 
“It's getting warm weather now, and things’ll be easy. 
He might stay till fall. I don't want to make trouble. 
I ain't one to go shovin' in between husband and wife.” 

“You're not coming between husband and wife,” cried 
Libbie fiercely. 

“Maybe Averil Faraday would take me, for a while,” 
ventured the old man with the humility of the homeless. 
“She and Bert's alone now.” 

“I don't want you to go,” said Libbie decisively. “You 
wait, Grampa, and see how things come out. Here, your 
coffee's cold. I’ll get you another cup.” The old man 
ate and drank in relieved silence. He had felt a shak¬ 
ing terror of having to find a new home. 

******* 

Benjamin stayed on, during the lovely freshness of 
May and June, and the overpowering heat of July. The 
household revolved around him. He rose later than the 
others, and had a special breakfast. Mrs. Hunt came 
in from her weeding when he appeared at the back door 
to signify the need of her service. If she were canning 
fruit or making jelly, she must stop in the midst of 
exacting processes, or call Caddie from her work. There 
was more washing and ironing than usual, to do, for 
Benjamin liked clean shirts and collars, and demanded 
freshness in table cloths and serviettes and towels. 

He pottered about, during parts of the day, saving 
his face by a modicum of labour in the garden; but he 
frequently had a headache, after such exertion, and must 
then lie on the sofa in the cool dining-room, with his 


THE LAKE 


197 


hat shading his eyes. If anyone would listen, he would 
tell tales of his adventures—what he had seen in Chi¬ 
cago and other cities. It seemed that he had spent the 
winter in Memphis; but he had come North at the first 
approach of spring—because he wanted to have a little 
amusement in Chicago, he said. He had seen plays and 
heard singing, and had witnessed the triumphal progress 
of great men, from railroad station to hotel. “I saw 
Taft one day,” he would begin; or, “Roosevelt isn’t such 
a big man as some people think he is—physically, I 

mean. Now, I saw him-” He was listened to chiefly 

in silence. Alec McLean regarded him with open dislike, 
and make Benjamin feel his opinion. “Alec McLean 
needn’t have such a lofty air,” Benjamin complained to 
Libbie. “He has his own little oddities to answer for.” 
Libbie made no reply, for she could not think of anything 
to say. 

Alec and Averil expressed some wonder as to how 
the traveller had subsisted during the many months 
which had elapsed since he had left home. They did 
not, however, feel like questioning him, partly, no doubt, 
because they did not desire to add to his self-importance 
by exhibiting too much interest in his history and 
methods. It was Bert who innocently asked the ques¬ 
tion, seeing nothing odd in wishing to know what was a 
man’s means of earning a living. “What do you do to 
earn money, when you’re away, Mr. Hunt?” he asked 
one evening, when he and Caddie and Benjamin were 
sitting out on the side porch. 

Benjamin hesitated, and then said, clearing his throat, 
“Well, I have plenty of ways of getting along. I can do 
a little bookkeeping, anywhere. I learned that a long 
time ago. And then there are other occupations of that 


198 


THE LAKE 


sort. I can go into almost any town, and get a job at 
handling some books or looking them over, before the 
day is gone.” 

“That’s fine,” said Bert in real admiration. To be 
able to walk into a place and get a job denoted a man of 
power. There were suggestions of excellent reward about 
such jobs as that, too. And there was a suggestion of 
being a gentleman, wearing a white shirt, and working 
in an office with well-dressed men and women. He re¬ 
ported his findings with satisfaction. Averil and Alec 
looked relieved, for their curiosity was placated; yet 
they were skeptical, too, wishing perhaps that Benjamin 
might suffer a bit more than he seemed to do, while he 
was away from his home and family. 

Libbie made as little comment as possible on her hus¬ 
band’s behaviour. She had grown silent and thin-faced. 
She drooped in the hot weather. Sometimes she did not 
come down to breakfast. Caddie was appalled, as at the 
failure of the sun to rise. When Elizabeth came down, 
white and languid, Caddie would run to get her coffee, 
tempt her anxiously with food, beg her not to go out in 
the sun. But Libbie would be suddenly better, and go 
on with her work. There was an ominous tension and 
unrest within the house. For one thing, Benjamin con¬ 
trived in numerous petty ways to vex and offend the old 
man, and to make him feel that his departure would be 
welcome. So frequent were these onslaughts, and so 
pitiful their result upon the victim, that even Averil, 
who came over but seldom, was aware of them. “Hadn’t 
I better take Mr. Gleason home with me for a while?” 
she said to Libbie. 

“No,” answered Libbie stubbornly. “I can’t have that. 
It would hurt him awfully if he thought I wanted him 


THE LAKE 199 

to go. And we might not be able to get him back. He 
gets notions, you know. That would be hard for you, 
and hard for us, too. We like him, and he likes us.” 

“Well-” Averil did not really want the old man 

in her house. Hubert was at home now, because of the 
school holiday, and she was feeling the relief and pleas¬ 
ure of a placid home. She worked hard in the house 
and in the garden, but the work was not in any sense a 
burden. They had a more expansive way of living, now 
that the winter did not crowd them into limited quarters. 
Alec had bought a car, as he had intended, and he came 
over in it from time to time and stayed for supper, and 
then they all went out on the lake, keeping, by tacit 
agreement, the side farthest from Willard’s grave. Alec 
took Bert out sometimes in the car, to the ecstatic de¬ 
light of the boy; but Averil did not like to go, lest there 
should be too much talk. She was beginning to enjoy 
a peaceful existence, such as she had not known for 
years. She even began to forget her own forebodings. 

The old man would be, in spite of his humility and 
gentleness, something of an intruder upon the quiet of 
the house. He would complicate the simple domestic life 
almost beyond endurance. Yet Averil, because she was 
sorry for Libbie, and because she comprehended to some 
degree how the old man could suffer at the hands of 
Benjamin, broached the subject again before the sum¬ 
mer was over. “Fd just as lief take him, really I would,” 
she said, arguing to herself that this was true, because 
her desire to help overruled her fear of annoyance. 

Libbie was stirring up a cake, to be baked when the 
supper-fire was hot. Her back was toward her caller. 

“No need,” she said briefly. Her shoulders sagged as 
with a weight too heavy. 


200 


THE LAKE 


“You don’t seem very well/’ said Averil. The truth 
flashed over her as she spoke. There was a voluble 

pause. “Is it—are you-” Averil stammered, rising 

from her chair, and going over to the other woman stand¬ 
ing at the table. 

Libbie looked over her shoulder and nodded, tears 
welling to her eyes. 

Averil put her arm around her friend. “Oh, I’m 
sorry!” was all that she could say. 

Libbie, breathing hard to keep back the sobs, leaned 
for a minute against the firmness of Averil’s shoulder 
and breast. “It don’t seem as if—as if I could stand 
it,” she whispered. “But then, of course I know I can.” 
She steadied herself, and fumbled for the flour-sifter. 
She could not see it for tears. 

“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” Averil was murmuring, aghast. 
She felt horrified, ashamed, almost, as if she were regard¬ 
ing something unnatural and revolting. Later she tried 
to shake off the feeling. “It’s probably all right,” she 
said to herself. “Maybe she still cares for him. How 
anyone could is beyond me—but women are so unreason¬ 
able and silly.” She could not keep the matter out of 
her mind. She brooded over it almost as intensely as 
if the trouble had been her own. For there was more 
to it than Elizabeth Hunt’s predicament and her despair. 
There was the whole problem of wives and husbands, 
and of mothers and children. When she saw Libbie 
again, Benjamin Hunt had gone, leaving behind him a 
different household from the one which he had invaded 
as his own. 

It was early in August. Cooler days had come, and 
the anguish of stifling weather on the farm was miti¬ 
gated. There was money in the house, the return for 


THE LAKE 


201 


hay sold from the meadow, and for strawberries and 
garden produce taken to the country store. Libbie lay 
in bed, weak and ill, in spite of the fresh wind blowing 
through the window. Benjamin was dressing in his lei¬ 
surely way, combing his hair fastidiously over the bald 
spot at the back of his head, trimming his pointed brown 
beard to the shape which he most approved. Libbie 
gave an involuntary groan. Benjamin stared at her as 
he put on his coat. “If you're going to be like this,” 
he said coolly, “there isn’t very much for me to stay 
at home for. A wife that’s ailing and complaining is 
the surest means of driving a man out of his house.” 

“Oh, Ben! Don’t talk like that,” protested Libbie. 
With an effort she got up and began to dress. 

Benjamin was out nearly all day, fishing in the brook 
which ran through the meadow behind the house. He 
brought in a string of speckled trout. “How’s that for 
a millionaire’s meal?” he laughed, displaying them. 
“Nobody cooks them better than you do.” 

“But they’re out of season, Ben,” said Libbie, frown¬ 
ing with distress. “You shouldn’t do it. It ain’t right.” 

“Of course they’re out of season,” retorted the man. 
“That’s the sauce that’ll make them perfect. You go 
on and cook them for your poor hungry husband. You 
always were too moral.” 

Libbie cooked them to the brown perfection of which 
she was master. Her consort ate heartily of them, prais¬ 
ing her skill. At dusk he sauntered out. The family 
sat on the porch, not missing him. At bedtime he was 
gone. They did not see him again. The money was 
gone, too; and some little trinkets were missing—relics 
of an earlier and more prosperous day. 

Elizabeth Hunt sat down on the back steps, and cried 


202 


THE LAKE 


hysterically, crushing down her sobbing breaths, lest the 
old man should hear. Caddie laid her head against her 
mother’s in an agonized attempt at consolation. “Don’t, 
don’t cry, mother,” she pleaded. “We can get along. 
He didn’t help us much—and we can earn more money.” 
After a pause she added, “I—I didn’t think you cared 
so awfully to have him here.” 

Elizabeth shuddered. “I didn’t—I don’t,” she an¬ 
swered, gasping. “It isn’t that. It’s something else.” 

“What else?” Caddie tightened her caressing arm 
along her mother’s shoulder.” 

“I can’t tell you now.” Libbie bent her head to her 
knees and gave herself up to such weeping as only 
heartbreak can excuse. Carraline, baffled and trembling, 
could only hold her close and murmur terrified endear¬ 
ments. She had never before seen her mother give way 
to despair. 


******* 

A short time afterward, Alec came to Libbie again, 
about Caddie’s going to school. “Have you thought it 
over?” he asked. “I suppose we ought to be planning 
on it.” 

“Yes, I’ve thought it over,” answered Mrs. Hunt with 
reluctance. “I can’t, Alec—I can’t spare her.” 

Alec looked crestfallen. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. 
“I’m terribly sorry. I’d been kind of counting on it.” 

Libbie could not conceal her distress. “You can’t be 
any more sorry than I am,” she replied. “It would 
mean so much to Caddie. I couldn’t think of letting 
you do it, if it wasn’t for that. But even so, I can’t 
let her go away. I’ll need her this winter-” 


THE LAKE 


203 


“I know-” Alec frowned miserably. 

“I can’t say any more,” said Libbie in a constrained 
voice. 

There was something, Alec saw, which she could not 
tell, some mysterious reason why she refused his offer 
of help. Perhaps she was even prouder than he thought. 
Perhaps she feared neighbourhood comment, in which 
case she was less independent than he supposed. 

“1 see,” he said. But he did not see; and he went 
away sorrowful, troubled about Carraline and her pros¬ 
pects in life. It was a long time before the truth dawned 
upon him as to the reason for Libbie’s refusal. 


CHAPTER III 


Winter had come on, a nipping winter, too, with flur¬ 
ries of snow, and fierce sudden drops of temperature 
to far below the freezing point. It was almost a year 
since Willard had gone. Life had settled into an 
acquiescence to his removal, had gone on without him 
in a calmer way; yet in a sense he was never for a 
moment forgotten. 

One evening Hubert had been over at the Hunts’. 
He came in, rather late, after his walk home in the 
moonlight, and found Alec McLean sitting with his 
mother in the front room. There was something still 
and solemn about them, but something so surcharged 
with emotion that Bert stood looking at them in sur¬ 
prise and vague expectation, as he took off his mittens 
beside the stove. For a while there was no speech, ex¬ 
cept his muttered, “Gee! It’s cold!” The silence made 
him look at the two people. He saw them anew: his 
mother, handsome in her sombre way, sitting in the 
lamplight, with her black silk blouse turned in at the 
neck and frilled with white lace, in which shone an old 
coral brooch. Her hands, strangely white and smooth 
in spite of hard work, lay in her lap, resting, it seemed, 
after struggle. Alec was not smoking. A cigar, not 
lighted, lay on the table. He was leaning back in his 
chair, his solid figure relaxed, his hands quiescent, his 
fresh youngish face serious, determined, but awed, as 
204 


THE LAKE 


205 


with an inner absorption, a remembrance of something 
terrible, an anticipation of something good. 

Both he and Averil seemed to have forgotten Bert. 
The clock in the other room ticked sharply, the logs 
in the stove fell down with a muffled noise. There was 
no other sound on the still night. After a while Alec 
roused himself. “Cold, is it?” he said. “Yes, winter’s 
here in real earnest again. Well, I must be getting 
along.” He rose reluctantly. His face was quiet. 
“Good night, Bert,” he added, without seeming actually 
to look at the boy. Averil rose. She and Alec went out 
into the other room. Bert, left standing by the stove, 
felt awkward and embarrassed; he did not know why. 
He heard the other two speaking in low tones, as they 
stood at the door. There was a wordless moment full 
of meaning, before the door opened and shut, with good 
nights not casually spoken. 

Averil did not come back at once. Bert, glancing at 
a paper, heard her locking the door and putting wood 
into the stove, preparing the house for the night. When 
she came back her face still wore the strange look which 
he had noted. He talked, but she hardly listened. They 
went to bed. It was Saturday night. 

Bert always liked Sunday morning. He got up later 
than on week days, and there was some special treat 
for breakfast. There was no hurrying to get the chores 
done and start off for school. 

This morning, after breakfast, and before the chores 
were done, Averil stood beside the window, looking out. 
Her back was toward the boy. “Bertie,” she said, her 
voice coming thickly, “I’ve got something to tell you.” 

“Mm-huh,” mumbled the lad. He had risen from the 
table, and was yawning and stretching. He was going 


206 


THE LAKE 


on fourteen now, and was growing into a solid, compact 
fellow, not devoid of the clumsiness of youth. He had 
no idea of what his mother was going to say. 

“Alec and I are going to be married,” said Averil. 

Bert stood petrified. He was scarcely aware that he 
had heard. He was dazed; he said nothing. Averil 
turned and looked obliquely at him. “Didn’t you hear 
me, Bertie?” she said. “Alec and I are going to be mar¬ 
ried.” 

“Mm-huh,” mumbled the boy again. He felt strange. 
He did not know that he had grown pale. He felt as 
he had done when he came on Alec and Willard in the 
woods—as if everything were falling down around him. 
He was like one in a dream, unable to move or adjust 
himself to catastrophe. 

“Well?” said Averil tremulously. “Can’t you say 
something?” 

Bert shook his head. Tears started to his eyes. His 
hands were shaking. He was surprised at himself, at 
the suddenness of this odd emotion which held him. It 
was not exactly hate of Alec, but an inexplicable antag¬ 
onism toward him, a blurred reaction against this high¬ 
handed performance, taking his mother away without 
so much as by-your-leave. Bert had never felt jealousy 
before. To-day it welled up in his soul, and all but 
overwhelmed him. 

“Don’t you think it will be—nice?” faltered the 
woman. 

Again Bert shook, his head. 

“What’s the matter, child?” Averil came to him, and 
put out a hand, to lay it on his arm. He shook her off. 
Dropping into his chair beside the table, he put his arm 
down among the plates and cups, pushing them aside 


THE LAKE 


207 


recklessly; and bent his head upon it, while he shook 
stormily with almost tearless sobs. He was wrenched 
by feelings so new and violent as to be terrifying. Averil 
stood beside him, her hand now on his shoulder. “Bertie, 
Bertie!” She spoke in an astonished voice. “Don’t you 
like Alec?” 

“No—no—no!” he heard himself say. He wondered 
why he said it, but at the moment, he could not for the 
life of him admit that he liked Alec. 

“Why, yes, you do,” cried Averil in alarm. “You’ve 
always liked him so much.” 

Bert shook his head savagely, disclaiming any affec¬ 
tion for his mother’s prospective bridegroom. 

“Why—why”—Averil spoke with pain and amaze— 
“I thought you did.” 

“I did like him, but I don’t now,” sobbed Hubert. 
In a way he was glad he was crying. Breaking down 
in such a childish manner was in distinct defiance to 
the advice of this Mr. McLean, who had instructed him 
to be a man, no matter what happened. 

“Don’t you want me to marry him?” 

“No!” 

“I thought—I thought you’d be pleased.” 

Bert could not dissect his feelings. There was an in¬ 
stinctive sense of something shocking in his mother’s 
talk of marriage, so soon after her husband’s death, 
even though in his life Willard had become so great a 
menace. There was also the dread of change, the shrink¬ 
ing from the new domination of a father, no matter if 
it were the easy tyranny of Alec. Most of all, there 
was the jealousy of this new relationship, of the assur¬ 
ance with which a man made bold to step in between 
mother and son. Bert had never known how much he 


208 


THE LAKE 


had clung to Averil, how completely he had lived his 
whole life in her. To lose her or to share her was 
unbearable and impossible. 

Averil, grasping something of all this, though neither 
she nor Bert could have expressed it, ceased to argue 
with him, but stood beside the chair, drooping, her hands 
hanging. After a while, she began picking up the dishes, 
and getting them ready to wash. Bert sat crouched with 
his forehead on his arm, not saying anything, hardly 
moving. At last he rose, wiping his eyes and nose fur¬ 
tively, and stumbled to the kitchen door, where his cap 
hung on a peg. He put on his cap and his heavy reefer. 
The chores must be done, and he was glad to get out and 
away. 

The feed for the chickens was on the back of the 
stove—a hot mash of potatoes, rye meal, and table 
scraps. He took up the kettle with a padded holder. 
He kept his eyes down. Averil, stirring soap into the 
dishwater, did not speak. He went out through the back 
kitchen and the shed. The sun was bright in his eyes. 
He went down the path with the heavy pot in his hand. 
He felt himself strangely moved again, and tears blurred 
his eyes, so that if he had not known with his feet each 
hummock and hollow of the path, he could not have 
gone on. 

The fowls received their warm ration with chucklings 
and flappings of joy. Bert hardly noticed them. The 
horses whinnied at his approach, the cow gave her stolid 
evidence of satisfaction. He attended to them punc¬ 
tiliously, as he had been taught by Willard Faraday and 
Alec McLean, but he did not caress them nor converse 
with them, as heretofore. When he had finished, he set 
the pail of milk upon the floor, and climbed up into the 


THE LAKE 


209 


hayloft. It was cold there, but protected from the wind. 
Hunched in the sunshine from the dusty window in the 
gable, he sat for a long time, scarcely thinking. The 
doves in their box under the eaves fluttered, rustled, and 
murmured. There was the sound of the horses munching 
their feed, and the cow shifting her feet and chewing. 
Hubert gave himself up to a dreamy sullenness, with¬ 
drawn from the touches of his world. 

After a time there came the ringing of the church bell 
at the village, regular and musical, a pleasant sound, 
full of sweetness and meaning. Hubert was cold. He 
wanted to go into the house, but he could not face his 
mother. He felt as if he and she were eternally sep¬ 
arated, as by a great gulf. 

He heard the barn door open, and then his mother 
calling him, below. He did not answer. She moved 
about. He heard her speak to the horses. Then she 
came climbing up the rough ladder to the loft. Her 
anxious face appeared, her head swathed in a knitted 
scarf. She stared blinkingly, and then saw the boy, 
shrinking into the hay. “Why, Bert!” she said, “I won¬ 
dered what had become of you. Are you all right? 

“Yeah, I'm all right,” replied the boy heavily. 

“Why don’t you come into the house? You’ll freeze, 
out here.” The woman spoke with pleading, as she 
clung precariously to the ladder. 

“I ain’t cold,” answered Bert. But he was. He looked 
sternly before him, to keep from flinching. 

“Oh, Bertie!” This was all Averil could say. She 
hung a moment, and began backing down the ladder. 
At the foot of it she called again, “Won’t you come in? 
You can’t stay here all day.” 

“Don’t want to.” 


210 


THE LAKE 


“You must. You can’t stay here. It’s too cold. 
We’re going to have dinner after a while.” It was, in 
fact, too early for dinner, but the mention of it might 
lure him. “Won’t you come, Bertie?” 

“We-ell.” The boy got up stiffly, and shook the bits 
of hay from his clothes. He was cramped and aching. 
He shivered. Sullenly he let himself down the ladder, 
landing with a loud thump on the barn floor. They 
went into the house. Averil had taken up the pail of 
congealing milk, but he snatched it from her, with his 
half-frozen hands. 

In the house they kept silence. Hubert sat down be¬ 
side the stove in the front room. When he realized that 
he was in the chair which Alec had occupied the night 
before, he got up and moved to another. He took up a 
paper, and laid it down, tapped with his foot on the 
nickel rim of the stove. He went upstairs to his room 
and came down again. He wondered when his mother 
and Alec were to be married—whether it would be right 
away, or a long time hence. At the table, he spoke and 
answered, but only with an effort. After dinner, he said, 
“I’m going to walk down and see Jigs.” Jigs was a 
friend of his in the village, and his name was George. 
Hubert did not like him especially well, but George had 
a box of tools and a camera. 

“All right,” said Averil. “But don’t you want to hitch 
up and drive down?” 

“Naw. Too much bother. I’ll walk.” Now that he 
had thought of it, Bert itched to be gone. He wished 
he might never come back 

He was gone a long time. The tools and the camera 
proved so interesting that he partly forgot his troubles. 
But on his return his footsteps were increasingly dull as 


THE LAKE 


211 


he approached the house—his house, as he thought with¬ 
out enthusiasm. Presently he was aware that Alec was 
coming to meet him. He wore his leather-lined overcoat, 
buttoned up closely, though one corner flew back and 
disclosed the smooth brown lining which Bert so much 
admired. Alec looked big and solid and prosperous. 

“Hello, lad,” he said, stopping in front of Bert. 

“Hullo.” Bert stopped, and kicked the snow, looking 
down. 

“Your mother told you,” said Alec. 

“Yes.” 

“Don’t you like it, boy?” asked Alec incredulously. 
“We thought you would.” 

Bert shook his head, his chin down, his jaw dropping. 

“Why not?” 

Silence. Bert scuffed in the snow. 

“Why not, Bert?” 

“Don’t know.” 

“Yes, you do. You must know why,” persisted Mc¬ 
Lean. 

“We’re all right as we are,” blurted the boy. 

Alec stood looking down at him thoughtfully. He 
thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “See here,” he 
said at last, as if with some hard determination, “I want 
to tell you something.” There was a grimness in his 
tone which made the boy look up wonderingly. It was 
as if the man had steeled himself to a painful task. “See 

here,” he repeated, “I’m—I’m-” But he did not 

finish. He stood irresolute. At last he said, “I’m your 
best friend, Bert. You know that.” 

Bert slumped at this anti-climax. His face was still 
sulky. “I s’pose so,” he answered, as if he were not con¬ 
vinced. 



212 


THE LAKE 


“I don’t wish you anything but good/’ Alec went on. 

Bert knew that, but he could not say that he did. 
The two stood there in the snow for a long minute, the 
boy looking down at the path, and the man looking at 
him. The landscape was blue with the stealing dusk. 
After a while Alec spoke. “I want to marry your 
mother,” he said slowly. “I think I can make her hap¬ 
pier. It’s hard for her here alone. You’re not old 
enough to help her much. And she’s had a hard time, 
these last years—a hard time. You know that.” He 
paused. Bert nodded, winking back sudden tears. He 
knew the truth of what the man was saying. “Why 
should you stand in her way?” queried Alec. “Can you 
do more for her than I can?” Bert had not thought of 
this phase of the question. He shook his head. His 
mouth twitched. “You love her, too.” Alec’s voice was 
lower. “That’s why you don’t want me to take her, 
ain’t it?” 

The boy moved his head slowly up and down. He 
had not known until to-day how he felt about his 
mother, nor that he would have fought anyone who tried 
to take her away from him. “She’s good to me,” he 
said brokenly. “She’s good-” 

The face of the man showed deep emotion, in which 
fear had its part. “If you care for her like that,” he 
replied, “you ought to want to see her better off. You 
ought to want to stand by her—no matter what she’s 
done—or what she does, I mean.” 

Bert looked ashamed. He made a little noise of 
dubious assent. 

“We aren’t going to get married for a few months 
yet,” Alec explained; “not until it’s more than a year, 
you know.” Bert felt comforted. “You’ll have time to 


THE LAKE 


213 


get used to it. It’ll be better, a good deal better, in 
the end, if we do get married. I’ll give you my word 

The boy gave a long sigh, and straightened his shoul¬ 
ders. He was partly reconciled to the idea of the mar¬ 
riage; so much so that he could go into the house with 
McLean, and sit with him and Averil in the front room 
and at the supper table. But he was glad that they had 
sense enough not to talk about him about their plans. 
Even now he could not have borne hearing such talk, 
and he must inevitably have given way to his emotions 
again in some childish manner. 

******* 

Plans developed bit by bit. Averil was to go and live 
at Alec’s, of course. Bert thought of the furniture in 
the unused rooms. He remembered how Alec had said, 
“God only knows whether I’ll ever use it.” Now it was 
going to be used. Averil would like it, too, for it was 
better than the things which the Faradays had accumu¬ 
lated during their married life. They had been less 
successful than McLean, in the way of money; and 
Willard had been severe in his tastes, and in his approval 
of Averil’s modest ambitions. 

Now Averil was more openly engaged in her prepara¬ 
tions for the marriage, though she kept them secret from 
her neighbours. Bert was enjoined to say nothing. 
After his talk with Alec, on that Sunday afternoon, he 
had become gradually content to let the marriage go 
on. There was still in his mind a residue of distaste 
and resentment, not so much against Alec—his affection 
for the man had asserted itself again—as against an in¬ 
explicable force which was taking his mother away from 
him, and which had complicated the lives of four people 


214 THE LAKE 

—Willard being still a recognizable member of the 
group. 

The one person to whom he spoke was Carraline. He 
saw her nearly every day; for though she was not in 
school now, she was almost always at home, where he 
could stop and see her. She came over to his house, as 
often as she could, but she was closely occupied with 
housework and her devotion to the old man. Carraline 
was becoming almost as much a part of Hubert’s life 
as his mother, a settled, accepted part of it, unquestioned 
and secure. 

Caddie was fifteen now, and was acquiring a pretty 
air of maturity, which succumbed at times to girlish fits 
of teasing and giggling. For the most part she seemed 
unduly serious and preoccupied. Bert was annoyed 
sometimes at the soberness with which she greeted him, 
and the random responses which she made to his sallies 
of would-be wit, and even his more important remarks. 
On the whole, however, he could not complain of her 
loyalty and sympathy. 

The old man, Grampa Gleason, was her special charge. 
In spite of his amazing strength, there were times when 
lassitude and depression kept him in his chair or in his 
bed. Whether he were ill or well, Caddie gave him un¬ 
remitting care. She prepared his food when he needed 
or desired something different from the family fare. She 
kept his clothes washed and mended, and his best suit 
pressed. She took pleasure in seeing him dressed up on 
Sundays or holidays in his neat black, with a white 
collar and dark blue tie. He was not an unimposing 
figure, thus dignified; and he was no inconsiderable addi¬ 
tion to a church-going party or a festive gathering. It 
was Caddie who saved the place for him in the vehicle, 
who indicated his position—not below the salt—at the 


THE LAKE 


215 


table, who drew him into the circle of talk, and who 
listened in private to his tales and jokes and called for 
a repetition of them before a larger audience.' 

She took care of his room with scrupulous attention, 
saw that he had the best sheets and towels, a comfor- 
able chair, a good light for reading. Since the return 
and departure of Benjamin Hunt, all the responsibility 
of the old man’s well-being had shifted to her. She 
made it a point of honour not to abate one jot or tittle 
of her service to him, or to hurt his feelings by the 
slightest show of indifference or neglect. 

“Caddie’s my right hand man,” the old fellow used 
to say. “She’s a whole family to me, wife and sons 
and daughters and everything. I don’t know how I’d 
get along without her. I couldn’t, I guess. I’d just have 
to stop.” 

Caddie would slip her hand into his. “You’re my 
grandpa,” she would say, laughing. “He is, too,” she 
said to Bert one day, after such an incident. 

Bert stared. “Why, he ain’t, either, you goosey,” 
he made reply. “He ain’t your grampa, any more than 
he’s an Eskimo.” He was rather proud of this compari¬ 
son. 

“Well, he is, too,” Caddie reiterated. “It isn’t just 
relations that count. I mean, it isn’t just being born 
that counts—that makes you a relation to people.” 

Bert looked more perplexed. “Why, what is it, then?” 
he asked skeptically. 

“It’s the way you feel that they’re relation,” she made 
answer. “Sometimes you don’t feel as if your own folks 
were related to you, at all. Mother says she never feels 
as if her brother Orson was any relation to her, because 
he’s never paid any attention to her. And I feel as if 
my f—as if—well—I mean it seems as if some one that 


216 


THE LAKE 


wasn’t any relation to you, was a real honest relation; 
and then they are,” she declared vehemently. 

“Pooh!” said Bert. 

“That’s what being relation is,” expounded Carraline. 

Bert wrinkled his nose, unpersuaded. “It seems 
funny,” he said with doubt. 

“It seemed so to me, until I talked with mother about 
it,” answered Caddie cheerfully, “and thought about it 
for a while. You better think about it.” 

“Huh,” commented Hubert, not without scorn. He 
proceeded to forget all about Carraline’s queer philos¬ 
ophy of kinship. 

He took occasion one day when he was at the Hunts’ 
to tell Caddie his news about his mother. He was 
standing around the kitchen, and Carraline was putting 
clean papers on the cupboard shelves. “Say, what do 
you think?” he said in a low voice, subdued to the mag¬ 
nitude of his message. 

“What?” Caddie stopped with the shears in her 
hands. She was cutting scalloped borders from old 
newspapers. 

“My mother’s going to marry Uncle Alec.” Bert tried 
to make his words casual, but his voice trembled. 

“She isf” Caddie laid the big shears down on the 
table and gasped. 

“She’s going to marry Uncle Alec,” repeated Bert im¬ 
pressively. 

“Well!” 

If Carraline had not had so much to occupy her 
mind of late, this might not have been so new an idea. 
Her mother, however, had carefully refrained from sug¬ 
gesting it to her, and had manoeuvred to keep her from 
hearing any gossip which might be circulating. In fact, 


THE LAKE 


217 


she heard little herself, since she lived so busily, and in 
such a secluded way. “Married to Alec McLean!” 
Carraline had an absorbed look. “It seems awful queer 
—so soon-” 

“It’ll be over a year,” said Bert quickly. 

Caddie considered. “It ought to be that long,” she 
asserted. “But-” 

“But what?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” The girl went on cutting the 
paper. “I don’t see why it isn’t all right.” 

“Nobody said it wasn’t all right,” flared Bert. It was 
one thing to disapprove the marriage himself, and an¬ 
other thing to have some one else insinuate criticism. 

“No, of course not,” said Caddie hastily.. “I was just 
thinking—but, anyway, you said it would be more than 
a year.” 

“Yes,” said Bert. “We aren’t telling anyone about 
it yet, of course.” 

“Of course not.” Carraline felt the importance of 
being a confidante. “You’re glad, aren’t you? I mean, 
glad they’re going to-” 

“I—I don’t know,” murmured the boy. “I guess so.” 

“You like Mr. McLean,” said Caddie, beginning to 
fit her paper to the shelves. “It seems as if he was 
kind of like—that is, more like a father to you than your 
own father. Doesn’t it?” She peered at him over her 
shoulder. 

“Maybe so,” said Bert reluctantly. He watched her 
folding and snipping the paper. 

“Your father was pretty hard to get along with/' 
remarked Caddie. 

“Yes.” 

“And Alec—Mr. McLean—has always been good to 




218 THE LAKE 

you. I should think you’d be glad,” the girl burst out, 
almost with passion. 

“I guess I am,” admitted Bert. Perhaps he was, after 
all. 

“And you see what I mean by relations,” added Car- 
raline, beginning to cut scallops on another sheet of 
paper. 

“Mm,” said Bert. He wasn’t going to admit that, 
no matter what she said. 

On the way home, he reflected that Caddie was rather 
tiresomely insistent on a foolish idea. He dismissed it 
with the patronizing tolerance of the male. 

He thought about his father, and wondered whether 
he knew what was going on. How he would hate this 
marriage! And how impotent he was, supposing that 
he knew! But how could he know? If what they had 
put away in the ground were all, that could take no 
cognizance of proceedings in the upper world. And if 
there were a shadowy, mysterious Willard, away in some 
remote and happy land, that couldn’t very well know, 
either. Hubert gave up the problem, and thought about 
something else. 

******* 

The next day, he said to his mother, the question 
having just dawned on him, “What you going to do 
with this place?” 

“Why, it’s really yours, Bertie,” she answered. Her 
face was serener than it had been. 

Bert looked blank. “I’d forgotten that.” 

“What do you want to do with it?” asked Averil. 

The boy pondered. Then he said eagerly, “Why can’t 
we leave it as it is?” 


THE LAKE 


219 


Averil showed her pleasure. “That’s just what I 
wanted,” she said. “I somehow don’t care to take much 
of anything with me—just a few of my own things— 
the looking-glass that was Auntie’s, and mother’s cherry 
table, and my sewing machine—I bought that with my 
own money—and maybe one or two other things. I’d be 
glad to leave all the rest,” she supplemented, with a 
tinge of bitterness in her tone. 

Bert assented. He understood that she might not 
want to take things that reminded her of Willard. It 
came to him, too, that here would always be a refuge 
for him, if the new home should prove to be no home 
at all. It was a comfort to him to know that the rooms 
were to be kept furnished, and that no one else would 
step into the house when Averil went away. 


CHAPTER IV 


When Libbie Hunt’s baby came, late in January, 
there were, as is usually the case, love and forgiveness 
prepared for it, and a place to nestle. Since it was not 
to blame for its existence, it could not be denied a wel¬ 
come. Averil and old Doctor Frame were the minis- 
trants at the natal hour, with Caddie white and tense 
in the background, and the old man heaping wood on 
the fires and hovering near the telephone. 

For weeks before, and now for weeks afterward, the 
brunt of the household management and toil had come 
upon Carraline. She accepted it uncomplainingly, and 
worked constantly and hard. The old man helped her 
as much as he could; but there were times, in spite of 
his eagerness to show his value, when he was ailing and 
inefficient, when Caddie must shovel the paths, bring in 
the wood, and care for the animals about the place, in 
addition to the cooking, sweeping, and other work which 
the house demanded. The neighbours did what they 
could for her, but they had their own cares, and there 
were times when they did not know what was going on 
at the isolated little house. Sometimes the Hendrickses 
took the girl to church with them, or to a school enter¬ 
tainment; and Alec McLean insisted on her riding to 
the village with him, now and then, when he was going 
down for supplies and coming back at once. 

But it was a hard time for Caddie,—a fact which she 
could not conceal, even from herself. Her consolations 
220 


THE LAKE 


221 


were John-Benjy, and Flora May. There seemed to be 
a compensatory element in her affection for the baby— 
as if there were something to make up, both to Flora 
May and herself; to the baby for being called into a 
chilly world where there were already too many babies, 
to Carraline for being kept out of the world of joyous 
youth. 

Libbie seemed different from the old Libbie. She was 
thinner, more sober, almost broken. She never referred 
to the vanished Benjamin. There had not been a word 
from him since that August evening on which he had 
disappeared. Probably, as Alec said to Averil, he had 
gone South again for the winter. 

One day Averil drove over, securely wrapped against 
the cold. She was bringing half of her own batch of 
doughnuts and a meat loaf—thinking to lighten the 
household burden for Caddie. Few visitors came to 
the little house drifted round with snow, holding in its 
narrow confines all there is of life, from new birth to old 
age. It kept off, precariously, the brutality of the cold, 
and preserved, by a pitiful margin, the dignities of 
existence. 

Averil found Libbie sitting close to the heating-stove 
in the sitting-room. She was holding the baby. There 
was frost upon the windows, and Caddie's geraniums, 
now moved to a box near the stove, showed the effects 
of frigid nights. The plain dingy room was as clean as 
women's hands could make it. The baby slept in her 
mother's arms, the blue-white eyelids closed, the small 
solemn face turned against the breast. Averil, bending 
over the child, had a feeling of the strangeness of the 
little creature, with its hold on life so slender, yet so 
strong. “Dear little thing!" she said impulsively. 


222 


THE LAKE 


“Yes, isn’t she?” murmured Libbie. Her face worked. 
“Oh, Averil, how do we dare—how do we dare?” 

“You mean”—Averil comprehended—“dare to bring 
them here-” 

“Yes. I think of it while I sit here. It seems so—so 
terrible, somehow.” 

Averil walked to the window and stood there, to hide 
her face from her friend. “I’ve thought about it, too,” 
she said; “thousands of times. It is terrible, to bring 
them here without their asking, and then let them suffer 
for it. Sometime I feel as if I couldn’t bear thinking 
about it.” 

“It crushes me, almost,” said Libbie, hardly above a 
whisper. “My poor children—my poor little baby-” 

Averil came back from the window, and laid her hand 
on the woman’s shoulder. “I don’t know of anybody 
that has more to give them than you have,” she said. 
Libbie shook with her effort to control herself. The baby 
stirred and whimpered. 

Averil took the food to the kitchen, where Carraline 
was working, in a cloud of tobacco smoke from the old 
man’s pipe. The atmosphere seemed to the visitor de¬ 
testable. Willard had not smoked, and Alec’s pipe did 
not seem to give out such an aggressive smell. 

When she went back to the sitting-room, Libbie was 
able to smile at her again. Averil sat down. “I can’t 
keep the horse standing,” she said, “even if he is in the 
shed, with a blanket on. I’ve got something to tell you. 
Maybe you know.” 

“Maybe,” answered Libbie, tucking the grey shawl 
closer around the child. 

“Alec and I-” 

“Yes.” 



THE LAKE 223 

“We’re going to be married.” Averil brought out her 
news breathlessly. 

“Yes. I thought so.” Libbie’s face brightened. 

“Well?” 

“It’s as it should be. I’m glad,” said Libbie. 

“It’s a year now,” Averil went on. “It’ll be more, 
when-” 

“Yes, there’s no use in waiting. I’m glad for both 
of you,” Libbie said, reaching out her hand for Averil’s. 
“Alec has needed someone to make a home for him, 
this long time. And you need someone, too, and so 
does Bert.” 

“Yes.” Averil thoughtfully straightened a fold of 
her skirt. “But-” 

“You mean, it isn’t what you need, so much as what 
you want?” 

“That’s it,” Averil returned. “I’ve had a hard life, 
Libbie—such a hard life. I couldn’t tell anyone.” She 
held her lips tightly together to keep them from quiver- 
ing. 

“I know it,” answered Elizabeth slowly. “I know. 
It must have been hard.” 

“Maybe I’ve made the hard part for myself,” hesi¬ 
tated Averil. “I’m not blaming anybody.” 

“We all do,” said the other. “But I can’t see what 
good it does to keep torturing ourselves. What’s done 
is done. The thing is, to do better, and be better.” 
There was a pause. “When do you think it will be— 
the wedding, I mean?” 

“In about a month,” said Averil. 

“You want time to get settled, before the spring work 
begins,” said Libbie practically. 

“Yes.” 



224 


THE LAKE 


“How does Bert feel about it?” 

“He hasn’t said anything?” 

“Not a word, to me. If he’s said anything to Caddie, 
she hasn’t peeped.” Libbie showed her pride in the fact 
that Caddie could be close-mouthed. 

“He didn’t like it at first,” said Averil; “but he feels 
all right now, I guess.” They talked for a few moments 
about plans for the wedding. “You’ll come, won’t you?” 
asked Averil. “There won’t be anyone except you and 
the Hendrickses and the minister and his wife.” 

“I’ll try to. Someone’ll have to stay at home,” Libbie 
returned. She took Averil’s hand again, and held it. 
“I hope, I do hope that you’ll be happy. Get away from 
the past, and begin over again.” 

Averil shuddered. “Can we get away from it? Oh, 
Libbie, sometimes I’m so scared-” 

“Don’t be,” said Libbie soothingly. “Don’t be scared. 
I guess we’ve got to have lots of courage in this life 
of ours.” 

“I’m afraid I haven’t got as much as you have,” 
murmured Averil. “Well, I must go on. I’ll telephone 
you every day; but you know that isn’t much use, for 
folks listen in so.” She kissed Libbie good-bye, and 
dropped a swift caress upon the cheek of the baby. 

******* 

The marriage of Averil and Alec took place in March. 
It was a quiet ceremony in Averil’s front room, in the 
house beside the lake. The bride wore a grey silk dress, 
which had come from a mail-order house. There was 
something meek and tamed about her in the grey silk, 
with lace at the neck, and the coral brooch which had 


THE LAKE 


225 


been her mother’s. Her dark hair was parted and twined 
at the back, her face was creamy white; her eyes burned 
with unwonted lustre. Alec stood up solidly beside her, 
the prosperous farmer with the air of the misplaced 
sailor. Bert was transfixed by the hush and solemnity 
of it all. The words which the crude young minister 
pronounced took on a dignity which had nothing to do 
with the graceless figure in the ill-fitting clothes, even 
as the great events in life transcend their poor human 
expression. 

Bert stayed with the Hunts while Alec and Averil 
went away for a week in Milwaukee and Chicago. The 
house beside the lake was temporarily deserted. The 
potatoes had been sold, and the stock had been moved 
to Alec’s farm. Bert was happy at the Hunts’. He 
went to school every day. He had never become quite 
reconciled to Caddie’s not going, and now it seemed as 
if she ought to start off with him every morning. “I’ve 
got plenty of other things to do,” she laughed, scrubbing 
John-Benjy’s face. “But I don’t say I’m not wishing 
I could go.” After school and in the evenings, he tried 
to help around the place as much as he could, and he 
and Caddie teased and taunted each other like naughty 
children. Carraline was almost herself again. 

Bert liked the old man more than ever, and listened 
spell-bound to tales of an earlier age. There were giants 
in those days, it seemed, and men and women who were 
marvels of beauty and industry and wisdom. 

One day during the week, Bert went over to the 
house beside the lake, to get clean clothing, and a treas¬ 
ure or two which he had left behind. He persuaded 
Carraline to go along. They tramped the slushy spring 


228 


THE LAKE 


prints on the walls. To the boy it all seemed elegant 
and impressive. He revelled secretly in the space and 
freedom, so different from the quality of Willard Fara¬ 
day's dwelling with its narrowness and gloom. 

After the elaborate supper which Mrs. Gundersen 
pressed upon them, the three who now constituted the 
family wandered through the warm bright rooms; Averil 
and Alec were still in their best clothes, symbols of ease 
and prosperity and the wisdom of the outer world. Alec 
had the air of a man who has come into his own. He 
laughed a great deal, throwing his head back and show¬ 
ing his white teeth; but there was more than hilarity 
in his manner and his look. There was the blessedness 
of achievement, after long and painful waiting, and 
there was the watchfulness which resolves to keep what 
it has heretofore renounced with hunger beyond words. 

“Like it, lad?" he said to Bert from time to time. 

“Sure, I do," Bert answered, beaming. He liked it 
more than he could tell. 

In their rounds they came to the picture of Alec's 
mother, hanging beside the secretary in the sitting-room. 
McLean took it down and looked at it, and then handed 
it to Averil. She nodded, and put it back hastily upon 
its nail. Bert hardly noticed the incident at the time, 
though long afterward it came to him again with the 
vividness which often marks erratic flashes of memory. 

The evening seemed to have no flaw in its content¬ 
ment. But after Bert had gone to bed in his big com¬ 
fortable room, and after he had been dozing or asleep, 
there came to him through half-opened doors the sound 
of his mother’s voice suddenly raised, and the cry, “Oh, 
Alec, I’m afraid!" Then came the man’s voice, not 


THE LAKE 


229 


ridiculing, but reasoning; and the stealthy shutting of 
a door. How silly women were, thought Hubert in the 
daze between sleeping and waking. Here was his mother, 
safely guarded within walls, and getting scared of 
burglars or crazy men, or something like that, when 
there wasn’t the least iota to be afraid of. It was queer, 
for she had been so brave in the house beside the lake, 
when there had been a good deal more to be afraid of, 
if one wanted to be so foolish. He couldn’t bother to 
think about it, for he was too sleepy, and the bed cer¬ 
tainly was more comfortable than the one he had had 
at home. 

The spring came on now, with what appeared un¬ 
equalled wonder and swiftness. The wild geese were 
flying early. White blossoms burst forth suddenly on 
hard grey twigs. Loveliness unfolded week by week. 
Hubert’s heart unfolded, too, in contentedness and af¬ 
fection. He was happier than he had hoped to be, at 
Uncle Alec’s house. The miseries of the past seemed 
quite effaced. Yet there was a little motion of home¬ 
sickness somewhere within his soul, which impelled him 
to go back to the old place. It was his own, anyhow, 
he argued, and he had to go back often, to see how it 
was getting along. It was easy to make excuses, espe¬ 
cially when the men began repairing fences and spread¬ 
ing fertilizers and making ready for the sowing of seed. 
Bert did not always go in. The stillness of the house 
continued to appal him. But he hoped to conquer this 
childishness of fear, and he was willing in the meantime 
to let the old house draw him with its force of associa¬ 
tion, subtle and unexplained. And always, on his way 
over or back, he turned aside to see the Hunts, who 


226 


THE LAKE 


roads together, cheerfully discoursing of matters light in 
weight. Bert felt an odd sense of being a stranger, as 
he walked up the lane to the house. Although nothing 
had been changed, it had an unlived-in appearance, in¬ 
explicable considering the short time which had elapsed 
since its inmates had departed. “It seems queer,” said 
Bert, catching his breath. “It don’t look any different, 
but it don’t seem like the same place.” 

“I guess it’s just because your mother isn’t there,” 
said Carraline understandingly. “It’s surprising, what 
a lot of difference a mother makes.” 

Bert had no answer to this, feeling the self-conscious¬ 
ness which a savour of sentiment arouses in a half- 
grown boy. He unlocked the side door, and they went 
in. The living-room was stiffly in order, but unnatural 
looking. Mrs. Hendricks had lingered, after the de¬ 
parture of the bride and groom, to make things tidy. 
The air was cold, with the chill of a house unwarmed 
for the better part of a week. Outside, the eaves were 
dripping with a loud 'plop, plop, and the sound echoed 
hollowly through the house. A stick of wood shifted 
its position in the stove, jarred by the footsteps of the 
intruders. It was all that Bert could do to force himself 
up the stairs to his room. The closed door of his father’s 
room seemed to hide mysterious and horrid possibilities. 
His hands were unsteady as he fumbled in the dresser 
drawers for clean shirts and stockings. One or two other 
things he decided he could get along without. He dashed 
downstairs again, whistling valiantly, to signify his 
entire freedom from fear. He found Carraline reading 
a magazine, oblivious of the thing which had given 
him an attack of nerves. 

This short visit to the place which had been his home 


THE LAKE 


227 


during all of his fourteen years made him the more eager 
for his mother’s return, and the new interests and 
companionships which he was to find in Uncle Alec’s 
house. 

Alec and Averil McLean came back on Monday 
afternoon. They had left their Ford at the county seat 
where they had taken the train, and they drove back 
home in it, stopping at the Hunts’ to take Bert along. 
They left a present for Carraline; and Bert suspected 
the contents of various parcels stowed away in the car, 
feeling an assurance that he was to share in the trophies 
of the honeymoon. Averil was wearing her new blue 
coat, and a hat so smart and becoming that it could 
have been purchased only in a metropolis. She looked 
handsome, glowing, and gratified, though the experiences 
of life had subdued her to a soberness even in ecstasy. 
The way in which the two received him gave Bert a 
moment of pride, and he felt all at once as if he “fitted 
in” to the new life, in a way which he had 'hardly ex¬ 
pected. The bustle of homecoming was sweet to him, 
sweeter even than the unwrapping of parcels and the 
discovery of countless treasures, topped off with the 
magnificence of a silver watch, almost the counterpart 
of the one which lay silent under the icy waters of the 
lake. 

Bert felt a wordless pleasure in the aspect of the new 
home. Averil had been over once or twice, before the 
wedding, to superintend the arrangement of the furnish¬ 
ings which Alec had bought, and the old mahogany 
which he had inherited. She was not skilled in art, but 
she had not taken the women’s magazines for nothing, 
and she had the natural taste of simplicity. There were 
some inoffensive rugs, a shaded lamp or two, a few old 


230 


THE LAKE 


stopped their round of drudgery to give him smiles of 
welcome and the boon of pleasant speech. 

******* 

The years went on now with tranquillity. The manner 
of life on the farm was prosperous and genial. The war 
was on. Prices were good. Alec fretted at times about 
his remoteness from the scenes of action; but he was 
too old to go to war, and Bert was too young, and the 
country needed food, and that was about all there was 
to be said. There were two automobiles on the place, 
one for utility and one for pleasure. A furnace had 
been installed in the house. Then a pumping apparatus 
was put in at the edge of the brook, so that all the 
buildings on the farm could have water-pressure and 
modern plumbing. These things were the talk of the 
countryside for a month. There were other improve¬ 
ments and comforts as time went on, better rugs and 
dishes, new curtains, a Yictrola. Alec and Averil went 
about but little in the neighbourhood: there were still 
people who regarded them with suspicion. But they 
went for long rides in their car, sometimes staying over 
night or two or three days. They went to the village 
to church (there was a new minister now, an older man); 
they drove the eight or nine miles to the county seat 
with increasing frequency. Mrs. Gundersen had a young 
Danish girl to help her about the house. Averil did no 
hard work, and she had good clothes—a fur coat, and 
silk dresses. 

Hubert was growing, developing, thinking. He went 
for four years to the High School at the county seat, 
coming home for week-ends and holidays. He was shy 
and quiet, but he did well enough in his studies for a 


THE LAKE 


231 


boy not bookishly inclined. He made friends among 
the boys and girls, enjoyed the merrymakings in his 
serious way, gained a working knowledge of life in town, 
among a variety of people. He followed in a dim way 
the course of the war, marched in parades, despised 
the Germans, and listened solemnly to the prevailing 
talk, both wise and witless, on the subjects of Liberty 
Bonds, relief for the Belgians, and Red Cross drives. 

He was always glad, at the end of the school week, 
to find Alec or Henry Gundersen waiting for him in the 
Ford, at the High School door, and he rejoiced in every 
moment which he could spend either at the McLean 
place, or at the old Faraday home. If bad weather or 
some special school event necessitated his staying over 
Sunday in town, he felt as if he had lost something, and 
had been unjustly treated. 

Several times during the school course, Alec McLean 
asked him anxiously, “What profession are you think¬ 
ing of going in for, my lad? Is there anything you’ll 
be wanting to study for?” There were means forth¬ 
coming, Hubert knew, for any occupation which he 
should choose; but for three years he had to answer, 
“Don’t know yet.” It did not seem worth while to hurry 
in deciding; there was plenty of time. Then all at once 
he knew. When Alec asked him again, he was ready 
with his reply, “I want to farm it, here, just as you do.” 

“Good!” McLean was delighted. The prospect of 
sending the boy away had been intolerable. 

Hubert knew now that he wanted to be back here 
beside the lake. Here was his place. Here was his 
mother; and here his stepfather, whose kindness exceeded 
that of many fathers. And also, here was Caddie. 
Slowly, slowly, deep down within him, Hubert knew, 


232 


THE LAKE 


without admitting, that Carraline Hunt was the core 
and centre of his life. She was always where he went 
to seek her, working deftly, steadily, uncomplainingly; 
always saving her mother, caring for the children, petting 
the old man, Grampa Gleason; always dependable, un¬ 
derstanding, and humane. Though she was ready with 
her smiles, her face was wistful, with a still brooding, 
an inner desire, for something more satisfying than the 
life she led. Bert saw nothing of this. He saw only the 
girl Carraline, who mothered and teased him, and listened 
to his tales of school and home with unflagging interest 
and unvarying ardour of response. 

When he was eighteen, and had just finished his course 
in the High School at the county seat, Hubert spent 
the summer at home, working his own farm, under 
Alec’s directions. He was awakening to the glory of 
having the place for his very own. During the years 
since AveriFs marriage, the house had been left as it 
had always been. Hubert had come and gone; and on 
occasion hired men had been lodged there, and meals 
had been prepared for harvesters, threshers, or wood¬ 
cutters. 

Little had been done toward the upkeep of the 
place, and now Hubert applied himself to the task of 
renovation. He repaired the sagging porch, put in new 
window panes, mended the steps and the trellis at the 
side door, trimmed the overhanging boughs and bushes, 
and in hours snatched from other labours, painted the 
house a fresh white, and the shutters green. So en¬ 
tranced was he with the result, and with the possibilities 
of indoor improvements, that he lived most of the 
summer “baching it” in the old home. He had lost his 


THE LAKE 


233 


fear of silences, and found that the air of desertion 
vanished when he had lived there steadily for a week. 
The acquisition of fowls to clack and chatter, and of 
a dog to growl protectingly or woof-woof at friendly ap¬ 
proaches, gave the crowning touches of homeliness to 
his domicile. He came to love its quietness and free¬ 
dom. He loved the summer mornings when he set out 
his breakfast on the kitchen table, and ate looking out 
across his fields, low and rich, hardly above the level 
of the lake. He wondered why his father had not made 
more money, with such good land. He reflected that 
there was not a great deal of it—at least compared with 
Alec McLean’s—and prices had been low in the earlier 
days when Willard had lived on the farm. There was 
something unlucky about his father, too, something that 
did not make for prosperity or happiness. He had 
striven furiously at his tasks, somehow defeating his 
own purpose of success. Bert recalled the advice which 
he had heard from the lips of his stepfather, “Keep 
clean, rest often, find the cool spots.” It was good advice. 
Alec had done well by taking it himself. Bert remem¬ 
bered his father’s insatiable frenzy of work, his sweat 
and grime, his obstinate moiling in the blazing sun. How 
futile it had been! He might have taken things more 
easily, saved himself a deal of suffering, and things 
probably would have turned out just as well; or just 
as badly, perhaps one ought to say. 

Bert’s own life on the farm was comfortable and un¬ 
disturbed. He liked to cook his own meals—of new pota¬ 
toes and peas from the garden, and chops from the 
meat-man’s wagon—finished off with Mrs. Gundersen’s 
pies or Carraline’s chocolate cake. He liked the hours 


234 


THE LAKE 


of hard work, remitted into seasons of rest and dreaming. 
He delighted in his cool swim in the lake, and his fresh 
clothes, after the day’s work was done. 

The best place for swimming was down at the little 
point beyond Willard Faraday’s grave. Bert had long 
since vanquished his fear of going past it, but not his 
shrinking. Every spring his mother said to him, “You’ll 
look after the little graveyard, Bertie,” and he answered 
with assent. He straightened and strengthened the 
picket fence, trimmed the evergreens, and pulled away 
encroaching weeds. There was a low headstone now, 
suitably engraved, and a square footstone with an F 
on it. This summer Hubert decided to give the plot a 
more careful going-over, that it might take on a quality 
of newness in harmony with the house. 

He chose a Sunday morning in June. It was early: 
he had found that he could not sleep late on these 
alluring mornings. He had had his breakfast and washed 
his dishes. He was a big boy, a man in appearance, 
with wide shoulders and a solid form, not stocky, but 
well knit. His grey eyes had a straight and honest 
gaze, but shy, never audacious nor aggressive. His 
light brown hair was soft and easily disordered. It an¬ 
noyed him by blowing about in the slightest breeze. 
On this particular morning he was dressed for his work 
in a blue chambray shirt, open at the neck, khaki 
trousers, buttoned in at the knee, and stout woollen 
stockings. He was carrying the tools requisite for his 
task. 

The lake was absolutely calm, every tamarack-tip 
and green sedge point reflected in it, dimmed by the 
faint haze of morning, which would be gone in another 
hour. The hemlocks, as ever, made a menacing shade, 


THE LAKE 


235 


which might conceal anything. Bert walked firmly 
through the young blueberry bushes and curling fronds 
of ferns, and little yellow grass-flowers. Farther down 
the path, his shoulders brushed the hazel bushes with 
honeysuckle climbing over them, and the poetic ame- 
lanchier shrubs, with heavy-scented white sprays of 
blossoms hanging among the leaves. He was half con¬ 
scious of the nameless sounds of a summer morning— 
chirping and thrilling and chattering. 

He reached the place, between the path and the shore. 
He leaned against the post at the corner, and looked 
over into the small enclosed plot. Vines were growing 
along the fence; a picket or two had loosened during 
the winter. The oldest headstone, with the date of 1853, 
had lurched sidewise. Willard’s headstone was firm and 
white and new-looking. Purple irises were in bloom 
beside it, and partridgeberry vines had crept over the 
concrete base. It was softened by vendure and bloom. 
There was not much to do, the boy decided, except to 
cut a few of the more vigourous bushes, rake the grass, 
and pull a weed or two. The fence and the older head¬ 
stones, marking forgotten lives, needed attention. He 
stood staring down. He could see the name, Willard 
Faraday , and the date of that bitter day at the last of 
the year—a day which he had always shut out of his 
memory when he could. 

He recalled the scene, the snow, heaped almost even 
with his head, the dark frozen soil, the whirling cutting 
flakes, driven by the gale, the shivering little group, the 
young minister, muffled in his cheap coat, raising his 
voice in what seemed unavailing prayer. What did it 
all mean? The mind of the boy went back to the year 
preceding his father’s death. He recalled the wrath 


236 


THE LAKE 


and anguish on the face of the man. He seemed never 
to remember his milder moods, but always his periods 
of sternness or of rage. 

What had his father been so angry about? Why had 
he made them all so miserable? There was no knowing 
what might have happened, if he had not been taken 
away. Was he merely growing insane, driven by some 
inexplicable fatality of inheritance? Or was there some¬ 
thing in his life which nobody knew, which harassed 
him beyond endurance? Hubert searched the past, 
baffled but intent. What was there in the simple life 
of the farm which could torture a man, and rouse him 
to an agony of passion, which he wreaked on those he 
loved? 

Was it debt? Surely not, for he had died solvent, 
and had left a respectable patrimony to his boy. Was 
it unsatisfied ambition? This seemed unlikely, for he 
had never known that Willard had expressed a desire 
for a broader life. Was there another woman? Here 
Hubert paused. He knew about such things now, and 
the miseries of illicit love. Newspapers and magazine 
stories were copious and explicit on these matters. 
Could there have been some other woman, whom Wil¬ 
lard loved above his wife? Hubert cast about for some 
support for this romantic suggestion. He could find 
nothing. There was no woman who could have come 
closely into Willard’s experience, except Libbie Hunt, 
and Martin Hendricks’ wife, and the blowsy Mrs. Jensen. 

Bert thought of the plump, hardworking Mrs. Hunt, 
even as she had been five or six years ago, before she 
had grown so weary and faded with toil. He shook 
his head. No, there was nothing in that. If there had 


THE LAKE 


237 


been a woman, it must have been someone whom Wil¬ 
lard met in secret, or whom he had known back, far 
back in the days before he and Averil had come to make 
their home beside the lake. Perhaps, the boy thought, 
sighing, Willard was just “naturally mean,” as he had 
heard people say of others, and there was no use in 
hunting for a reason for his behaviour. Yet, after all, 

there might have been something- He thought of 

his mother, handsome in her early middle age, sheltered 
and provided for now, after her hard lean years. He 
perused her life as it was revealed to him; and saw her 
not happy, even yet. Not infrequently her face was 
strained with suffering, a hidden anxiety, a mark of un¬ 
certainty and fear. He remembered how, on the night 
of her return from her wedding trip, she had cried out 
in a tone of anguish, “Oh, Alec, I’m afraid!” He had 
laughed then at the silly timidity of women. He knew 
now that she had been afraid of some terror which might 
come upon her, not of darkness or marauders. Afraid 
of what? Was there something hidden in her life, 
too? 

He thought of Alexander McLean, the solid good- 
looking man, not old for all his forty-two years—which 
seem so numerous to eighteen: boyish, friendly, laughing, 
substantial, successful as success went in his provincial 
world, yet not happy, either, as it dawned upon the boy 
with slow incredulous surprise. There were nights, sum¬ 
mer nights like the one just passed, when Alec could 
not sleep, but walked up and down on the sward in front 
of the house, or strode off on long blind excursions 
through the fields; times, too, when he was haggard and 
speechless, when his shoulders sagged, and the colour 


238 


THE LAKE 


in his cheeks was dulled; when he looked at Hubert as 
if he did not see him, and when he looked at him pierc¬ 
ingly with terrified eyes, or turned away as if there were 
something that he could not bear to see. He was always 
gentle, even in those strange crises. What was hidden 
in the life of Alec? Hubert, groping in the realm of 
mind, felt almost as if he could find and grasp it; but 
it slipped away, evaded him. Now he almost touched 
it; then it receded and was gone. 

Hubert stood tranced, thinking as he had never 
thought before, of the people around him, who had been 
his nearest as far back as he could remember. There 
is always a time when a young person awakes to the 
fact that his father and mother are different from what 
he thought, not merely a father and a mother, but human 
beings, with their virtues and failings, and their in¬ 
evitable human history of action and emotion. That 
time had come to Hubert Faraday. The dead Willard, 
and the living Averil and Alexander rose before him 
like new and individualized creatures, seen, in a way, 
for the first time. It came to him that they had a history 
which had begun long before he had had perception 
or even being; to probe that past was more than he could 
do. He had a vague feeling that their past concerned 
him more than he understood, and that if he knew more 
about them, he should know something now undefined 
about himself. 

He woke from his absorption with a dazed sense of 
the passage of time and the unfolding of knowledge. 
He saw that the sun was higher, that the mist was gone 
from the lake, that the hemlocks cast shorter shadows 
toward the water. He came broad awake then, fumbled 
at the warped gate, and went into the little plot. While 


THE LAKE 


239 


he worked, he felt upon him the spell of his thinking, 
the romance of human lives in their complex relation¬ 
ships, realms which hitherto had been densely veiled. 
He worked while the sun grew warm on his shoulders. 
He did not whistle as he did when he hoed corn or 
planted potatoes. Gradually the sombreness of his 
thoughts lightened. They glanced back to his house, 
shining white against the hemlocks, to Carraline and the 
little girl, Flora May, to the long day before him, in 
which he might do whatever he pleased. He was glad 
when the yearly task was over, and he could fasten 
behind him the clinking latch of the graveyard gate. 

******* 

That evening, when he was out on the lake with 
Caddie, the mood of the morning returned. He rowed 
slowly across the red and gold waters, blue beneath 
them as they looked down. “Funny,” said the boy; “I 
never go over here in the boat that I don’t think of 
my watch that I got when I was twelve years old, down 
at the bottom of the lake in the mud.” 

The girl peered down as if she expected to see it, eighty 
or ninety feet below. “Your father threw it in,” she 
said. 

“Yes,” answered Bert absently. Then he added, “I 
wonder why he did that.” 

“He must have been terribly angry,” said Carraline 
meditatively. 

“I know. But what about?” Bert looked over to 
his companion as if he must have from her the solution 
of his problems. 

“There must have been something,” said Caddie 
"Can’t you remember what went on before that?” 


240 


THE LAKE 


“It’s too long ago,” said the boy. “I was too little to 
understand—if there was anything.” 

“People get awfully mad about nothing,” said Car- 
raline wisely. 

“I guess they do,” Bert agreed; “but I don’t believe 
this was just nothing. There must have been some sort 
of thing,” he persisted, “that set him wild.” He was 
searching the past again, trying to see something ob¬ 
scured by time and ignorance. 

“I remember that he acted queer,” the girl responded. 
“I didn’t like him very well. I like your stepfather 
better.” 

“Yes,” said the boy, pulling idly at the oars. “Do you 
remember, one time, long ago”—he flushed, but went 
on—“you asked me if I thought mother had made a 
mistake in marrying him?” 

“Marrying who? Alec McLean?” 

“No. My father.” 

“Did I? No, I don’t remember.” She smiled. “I 
was always saying pretty awful things. I was so sort 
of innocent, I didn’t know any better.” The colour 
deepened in her cheeks. Perhaps she was reviewing 
some of the things she had said. 

“I remember as plain as day,” said Hubert. “We were 
walking along, over there.” He waved the oar toward 
the road, where it edged the arc of the lake. “It seemed 
so strange to me. I didn’t know then that folks ever 
made a mistake in getting married.” 

“But they do,” said Caddie quickly 

“Yes. Awful.” He thought of Elizabeth Hunt and 
the missing Benjamin. He suspected that Caddie was 
thinking of them, too. 

“But there was no mistake in your mother’s marrying 


THE LAKE 241 

Mr. McLean,” said the girl. “They get along just 
splendidly, don’t they?” 

“Yes. But-” Bert hesitated. “I never thought 

about it until this morning—I don’t believe they’re so 
awfully happy—do you?” 

Carraline did not look surprised. “No, I don’t be¬ 
lieve they are,” she answered. “But I don’t think it’s 
because of each other. I mean, I don’t think they’re 
unhappy together,—because they don’t care for each 
other.” 

Bert moved an oar to catch the reddening light of 
sunset. “N-no,” he replied, “it must be something else. 
I wonder what.” His face wore the look of perplexity 
which it had worn that morning. 

Carraline looked puzzled, too. “It can’t be anything 
so very terrible,” she said slowly; “for they’re both 
good” 

“Uh-huh.” Bert felt a quick distaste for the word 
good as she had used it. Of course Alec and Averil were 
“good.” He had heard Alec swear at the stupidity of 
hired men, or the perversity of pigs and cattle; and he 
had seen his mother cross and fretful when Mrs. Gunder- 
sen knocked the veneer off her old pieces of mahogany, 
or when the Danish girl broke her best dishes. But 
“good,”—oh, of course. If one’s mother weren’t good, 
the world would collapse, the universe would go to pieces. 
One’s mother was always good. It was inconceivable 
that she should be otherwise. Such things merely didn’t 
happen, that was all. In stories, sometimes, or in parts 
of creation undefined and unvisited, a fellow’s mother 
might be—bad (that is, not good), but occurrences of 
that kind didn’t take place among the people that one 
knew and loved. 



242 


THE LAKE 


He came back to what Carraline was saying, “1 guess 
if it were anything very shocking, other people would 
know about it, fast enough.” 

“That’s so,” he answered, with only half his thoughts. 

“Maybe it’s just that they don’t like getting old— 
older, I mean. Of course, they’re not really old yet— 
not like Grampa Gleason. But lots of people feel real 
bad at getting older.” 

Bert looked at her in admiration. She knew so much 
more than he did about people, and had thought about 
things that hadn’t entered his mind. And yet he felt 
superior to Caddie, too; he had been away at school, 
and had travelled around quite a little with Alec, and 
she had stayed right here on the farm. He had a farm 
of his own. There were a good many ways, if he stopped 
to think of them, in which he felt superior to Caddie. 
He would not have liked it if there hadn’t been. 

“Poor old Grampa, he’s getting queerer,” Carraline 
was saying with humourous sadness. “He gets such 
notions, you know, that we can hardly get him out of 
them. You know I told you about how he thought the 
hayfork was going to fall and hurt somebody, and how 
he got a knife to cut the rope. And, oh, I must tell 
you about this morning. He got an idea that mother 
wanted the trees down, so that she could see the road 
better. She said something about it, one day, I guess, 
not meaning very much. And this morning, before we 
were up, Grampa got the axe, and went to cutting the 
ox-heart cherry-tree down. I heard it, but thought he 
was just chopping wood, though he doesn’t do that on 
Sundays if he remembers, and finally I got up and looked 
out the window, and there he was chopping away like 
mad, and the tree just ready to fall. I called out to him, 


THE LAKE 


243 


but he wouldn’t listen, but kept on chopping, and before 
I could get downstairs the tree fell smash into the lettuce 
bed!” 

Bert marvelled and commiserated. “He’s awfully 
strong yet, isn’t he?” 

“Yes, sometimes he is,” said Caddie. “Then again 
he’s almost as weak as a baby. Of course, he’s pretty 
old now—over eighty.” 

“It seems funny to be so old,” remarked the boy. 

Caddie sighed. “I suppose people ought to get some¬ 
thing out of life while they’re young.” 

Even Bert, with his boyish obtuseness, realized that 
she was thinking how little she was getting out of these 
golden days of youth. He looked at her thoughtfully 
as she sat in the stern of the boat, in her many-times- 
washed white dress, and her cheap white canvas shoes. 
She was nineteen now, but she was slight and girlish. 
She wore no hat, and her thick brown hair was piled 
upon her head in curling masses, softening the lines of 
her thin face, delicately formed and touched with healthy 
colour in cheeks and lips. He had not thought much 
about how Carraline looked, accepting her as she was, 
as he accepted his friends and relatives, regardless of 
outward appearance. 

“You ought to go away somewhere, and have a good 
time,” he said at last. 

Caddy cringed. “I can’t, of course. There’s so much 
to do, with mother and Grampa Gleason, and Benjy, and 
Flora May.” 

“They’d have to get along without you if you 
died—or got married,” he added with a sudden inspira¬ 
tion. 

Caddie’s face grew pink. “Well, maybe,” she con- 


244 


THE LAKE 


ceded. She looked down into the water, where the 
ripples stirred by the oars took multi-coloured flecks 
from the sky. 

“They'd have to let you go then," he repeated in a 
triumphant tone. He had just thought of that. A 
family couldn't hold to a girl for ever, if someone else 
—a man—wanted her. A man had his rights. 

Bert felt exalted at the idea. A man could go right 
into a family and take a girl out of it, no matter what 
the other folks thought; if she cared for him, of course. 
She had to care for him, or she wouldn’t go. Suppose 
the man wanted the girl, and asked her, and she wouldn’t 
go with him! There was that, too. Bert sat astounded. 
That would be pretty bad. That might be unbearable. 
But, of course, he reflected, a man would be fairly sure 
to know whether she liked him, before he asked her. 
Yes, one would have to be sure of that. There must be 
ways of knowing. He was so interested in these thoughts 
that he sat staring at Carraline with unseeing eyes. 
She looked up sidewise at him uncomfortably. 

“See those loons out there," she said, to break the 
silence. She indicated two black figures on the red¬ 
dened wave. 

But Bert was not to be distracted by loons. “Mm- 
huh,” he answered absently, and went on thinking. 
Carraline would get married. Someone would go in and 
take her out of her home. There was Carl Jensen. He's 
been over there a good deal lately. He conceived an 
inexplicable dislike of Carl, whom he had heretofore 
regarded with indifference: a white-headed Dane, a pie- 
face, a square-head—that's what he was. Imagine Cad¬ 
die- He splashed the water wrathfully with his oars. 

Squeals from Caddie brought him back to his surround- 



THE LAKE 


245 


ings. “Oh, rats!” he exclaimed, “what a dumbster I 
am!” He was truly chagrined that he had sprinkled 
his passenger, not because there was any perishable 
quality in her costume, but chiefly because he was 
proclaimed a poor oarsman, in defiance of truth. 

“It doesn’t matter,” cried the girl, laughing. “I saw 
that you were dreaming, and didn’t know what you were 
doing.” 

“I was just thinking,” Bert mumbled. He felt con¬ 
fused, as if he had been caught looking at himself in the 
glass. “Say, I’ll row down to the other end of the lake, 
if you aren’t in any hurry to get home.” 

“I’d love that,” said Caddie, settling back into the 
seat of the boat. To show that she was at her ease, 
she began humming a tune which had been sung in 
church that morning. 

******* 

When Carraline arrived at home, she found her mother 
setting out the late Sunday supper. The girl, eager to 
help, stepped to the bench in the corner, to wash her 
hands and smooth her hair at the crinkly mirror. 

“Mother,” she said slowly, pinning up a particularly 
errant lock, “do you think that Alec and Averil McLean 
are happy?” 

Mrs. Hunt, grown stouter with the years, stood lean¬ 
ing against the built-in cupboard, where she had been 
reaching for the cups. She held them in her hand while 
she considered. “Happy?” she said musingly. “Why 
do you ask that?” 

“Oh, because Bert was saying when we were out on 
the lake that he didn’t think they were. He’d just 
thought about it, he said.” 


246 


THE LAKE 


“We-ell,” said Mrs. Hunt, turning to put the cups 
on the table. 

"He thought there must be something that bothered 
them, that we didn’t know,” explained Caddie. 

Mrs. Hunt felt a pang of apprehension. Bert was 
growing up. He was beginning to wonder. He would 
be blundering, stirring things up. He might bring on 
a crisis at any time. She did not answer the girl, but 
sought fumblingly in the knife box for the proper array 
of cutlery. 

“I told him,” Carraline went on, “that it couldn’t be 
anything very terrible, or other people would know it.” 

“That sounds reasonable,” said Libbie, laying knives 
and forks on the table. There was a wrinkle between 
her eyes. “Oh, poor souls!” she muttered under her 
breath. 

“What?” asked Caddie curiously. 

“Nothing. I seem to have got out knives instead of 
forks. Well, we can’t see into other folks’ lives, Cad¬ 
die,” she went on. “I don’t know as we have any call 
to pry, as I guess you’ve heard me say before.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Carraline. “But I think Alec 
and Averil ought to be happy. They have all they need 
to live on, and they like each other. Don’t you think 
they do?” she asked anxiously. 

“Yes, I think they do,” the older woman made solemn 
reply. 

“And they like Bert, and they haven’t any trouble 

_ » 

“You don’t know,” interposed Libbie Hunt, vehem¬ 
ently. “Nobody knows another person’s life. Nobody.” 

Carraline looked perplexed. Did her mother have 
thoughts and troubles that nobody knew? She had a 


THE LAKE 


247 


feeling of awkwardness, as if she might say too much 
if she went further. There was a space of silence as 
the two women finished setting the table and getting 
out the food. After a while, Mrs. Hunt said, “I feel 
as if we must watch Grampa real careful, these days.” 

“Oh, I don’t believe he’ll do anything more for a 
while,” answered Caddie. “He feels so bad about what 
he’s done.” 

The old man came in just then, very neat in his Sun¬ 
day garments, which he loved to wear all day. He 
hung up his hat, and went to put the chairs at the 
table. He had a subdued and humiliated air. “I didn’t 
mean no harm,” he broke out, making his apologies for 
the twentieth time. He looked at the girl pleadingly. 
“I wouldn’t harm a flea that belonged to you or your 
mother—not a flea.” 

Caddie giggled irrepressibly. “Oh, Grampa! What 
a thing to say!” 

“Well, I wouldn’t,” repeated the old man earnestly. 

“I know, Grampa. You’re as good as gold.” Car- 
raline put her hand on his arm, with her affectionate 
gesture. “You sit down, now, and start your supper, 
while I go and get Benjy and Flora May.” 

******* 

Hubert liked the old man, and accepted him in the 
Hunt family, as if he had been Carraline’s real grand¬ 
father. 

One day in summer, Bert decided to take his supper 
with him, and walk over to the Chain of Lakes, and 
tramp about the woods. He made this little pilgrimage 
once or twice in the season. Sometimes Alec went with 
him on a Sunday afternoon. 


248 


THE LAKE 


It was a week day, and Alec was busy. Hubert 
started alone, with his luncheon in a paper packet. Pass¬ 
ing the Hunts’, he saw Carraline in the yard, and waved 
to her. She came to the gate for a chat, as she usually 
did when he was passing. She turned back into the 
house, and Bert, lingering to adjust a shoe string, heard 
his name called softly from the path. He looked up. 
Mr. Gleason was hurrying to the gate, bareheaded, his 
thin hair blowing in the breeze. 

“Boy! Boy!” he called in an undertone. He was 
breathing quickly, like an excited child. “Don’t you 
want—wouldn’t you let me go along? Caddie says 
you’re going over to the Chain.” He was shy, tremulous, 
afraid of being in the way, yet eager for his excur¬ 
sion. 

“Why, sure, Grampa.” Hubert felt embarrassed by 
his own stupidity. “I’d have asked you if Fd thought 
you’d like to go. Of course. Come right along. Shall 
I get your hat?” 

“But about the lunch,” the old man faltered. 

“I’ve got enough for both of us,” said Bert. 

“I can bring some harvest apples.” The old man’s 
face brightened. 

“All right,” said Bert. “That’ll be fine.” 

“I’ll get my hat.” The old man hastened back to the 
house. He came out again, smiling proudly, his hat 
rakishly askew, his pockets bulging. “Libbie made me 
take some gingerbread and some other things,” he said; 
“and I brought the apples. Have one now?” 

“N—yes, sure.” Hubert reached for the apple and 
bit into it with simulated appetite. 

They tramped along. The old man walked with a 
good swing. There was no tottering nor cringing. Bert 


THE LAKE 


249 


was solicitous, but soon ceased to worry about the old 
man's strength, merely taking care to keep the pace 
down, and to stop occasionally under pretense of looking 
at something. 

The old man was willing to talk. “I’m an old rat 
now,” he said, glancing sidewise at the boy. “I could 
walk and work and wrassle with the best of 'em, in my 
time. It ain’t any fun gettin' old, my boy.” 

Hubert winced. “I suppose not,” he answered. 

“It's hard,” the old man went on. “When you’re 
young, it don't seem as if you was ever goin’ to get old. 
It seems as if you was always goin' to be red-cheeked 
—as you are now—and brown-headed and straight and 
able.” 

Hubert did not know what to say. He felt embar¬ 
rassed, as if one were talking of a disfigurement. He 
muttered again, “I suppose that's so.” 

“I guess there's some things that make up,” the old 
man ventured, after a pause. “There's Caddie, f’r in¬ 
stance. I think she makes up for a lot. She’s a fine 
girl,” he continued, seeing that Hubert had no answer 
to make. “I hope she’ll marry someone that'll be good 
to her, 'n' make her happy.” He gave the boy another 
furtive look. Bert visualized Caddie, poor and hard- 
worked, being carried off into a more glorified existence. 

“Carl Jensen, now-” said the old man. He stopped 

to reach for a wild cherry twig, which he broke and put 
into his mouth. 

Bert felt a change of emotion running through him. 
Carl Jensen! Why should he be mentioned in the same 
breath with Caddie? “Huh?” he grunted, half in scorn 
and half in curiosity. 

“Carl Jensen hangs around her a good deal,” said 


250 


THE LAKE 


Mr. Gleason. “I hope”—he balanced his words—“I 
hope he ain’t countin’ on gettin’ her.” 

“He won’t get her,” snorted Bert. 

The old man chewed his wild cherry twig reflectively. 
“Hm. I hope not,” he said. “But-” 

“What’d she want of a tow-headed Dane?” asked 
Bert angrily. 

“Well, the girls around here have taken ’em.” Mr. 
Gleason shook his head as if in warning. “There was 
Susie Whitmore—she married Berndt Olsen; and Mary 
Harkness-” 

Bert did not wait for the complete list. “I guess 
Caddie knows better than that,” he replied, with a savour 
of sullenness. “She ain’t like either of those girls.” 

“I don’t know,” said the old man. “A girl gets tired 
of being tied up at home. When she gets desp’rit 
enough, she’s willin’ to jump out o’ the fryin’ pan, even 
if it is into the fire. I was hopin’,” he added tentatively, 
getting rid of the wild cherry twig with an explosive 
breath, “Mm-m-” 

“What?” Bert carefully refrained from seeming too 
much interested. 

“Well, that Caddie’d get a real nice American fellow 
—a clean straight sort of chap, with a good family be¬ 
hind him, an’ nothin’ to be ashamed of.” 

“Prob’ly she will, all right,” murmured Bert. Of 
course Carraline would get that sort of a fellow. Just 
who he’d be—that was hard to say. There weren’t very 
many fellows of that kind around the country. But 
probably there would be one, when the right time came. 
Bert hunched himself along with his hands in his pockets. 
He did not feel quite the exhilaration that he had felt 
when Carraline had left him at the gate. 




THE LAKE 


251 


Without much more talk, the two made their way 
past the log house, and down the grass-grown road to 
the largest lake of the Chain. The old man was glad 
to sit down on a fallen tree and rest. They had come 
more slowly than Bert had intended, and it was time for 
them to eat their outdoor meal. They ate with a relish, 
pressing the food upon each other, each watching lest 
he should seem indifferent or greedy. 

“I’ve heard tell,” the old man said, holding his piece 
of gingerbread in his hand, ‘That these lakes are on a 
different level from the one your farm is on.” 

It thrilled Bert to hear him say your farm. His farm 
was becoming more and more precious in his eyes. “Yes, 
I know it is,” he answered. “Alec told me that, a long 
time ago. It’s a matter of five or six feet, I guess, and 
only a little way through.” 

“I heard about it years ago. I disremember who told 
me. I know just about where the place is.” Mr. Gleason 
indicated a direction with the piece of gingerbread. 
“ ’Sposing we go over an’ look, after we’ve got done 
eating.” 

“All right,” said Bert. He liked humouring the old 
man. There was still a good deal of daylight left. They 
might as well go to one place as another. When they 
had finished, and had tempted various wild creatures in 
fur and feathers with the fragments of the feast, they 
rose and walked along the edge of the lake, through blue¬ 
berry bushes and overhanging boughs. Sometimes the 
ground was slippery with pine needles, and the walking 
became difficult. “I don’t believe we’d better go on,” 
remonstrated Bert, anxious lest he should be doing an 
injury to the old man. 

“It ain’t hurtin’ me a mite,” Mr. Gleason assured him. 


252 


THE LAKE 


So they kept on, until they came to the narrow neck 
of land between the two lakes—a deceptively sloping 
little isthmus which innocently concealed its sinister 
possibilities under a grassy smoothness set with pearly 
clumps of birch. “Here ’tis,” cried Mr. Gleason ex¬ 
citedly. “See! It’s just a teeny little ways through, 
and the grade is so kind of queer that you wouldn’t 
think there was a lot of difference. Curious, ain’t it?” 
He pointed with a shaky forefinger to the various pecu¬ 
liarities of the topography. 

“Yes, it is.” Bert was interested, in a way; but 
under everything he was thinking of Carraline, and what 
Grampa Gleason had said about Carl Jensen, and about 
the American girls in the community who had married 
Danes. After all, a little neck of land between two 
lakes did not seem of terrible importance. 

The old man was pacing the distance, and trying the 
grade. “The water’s low now,” he was saying; “but if 
it should get real high, it wouldn’t be much of a job to 
cut right through, and throw the lakes all together.” 

Bert started. “Why should anyone want to do that?” 
he asked sharply. 

The old man looked dazed. “Oh, I don’t know,” he 
said, blinking. “I—was just thinking how ’twould be. 
No, no, I don’t s’pose anyone’d reely want it done.” 

“I should say not,” cried the boy. “It would play 
the deuce with my land, you know.” 

“Would it?” returned the old man, still confused. 
“Yes, yes, I dare say it would. It might run all over 
everything.” 

“You bet it would,” said Bert. He did not believe 
that the old man actually understood, but he hardly 
thought it worth while to explain, He felt vexed with 


THE LAKE 


253 


himself for coming over here, and letting Mr. Gleason 
in for a long tramp home. Besides, he was absorbed 
in his own thoughts. He couldn’t help thinking of what 
the old man had said about Carraline, and her jumping 
from the frying pan into the fire. "Come on; let’s be 
starting back,” he said. The old man came docilely 
enough, though he muttered from time to time as they 
walked along, “It reely ain’t very far through there. 
Anybody could cut it through that wanted to.” 

******* 

All the time, during the next days, Hubert was think¬ 
ing of Carraline. Somehow, clear or faint, she was in 
his mind. He thought of her as he went about his 
work in the fields, when he rode back and forth between 
his house and Alec McLean’s, when he slept in his own 
bed in the house beside the lake, or in his own bed under 
his mother’s roof. When he ate or dawdled about his 
place or sat idle, there was always the picture of Car¬ 
raline before him, always her warmth and sweetness 
permeating his spirit. Sometimes in these dreams he 
felt a pulsing thrill that ran through him, a swimming, 
breathless emotion, as if he were in an ecstatic trance. 

Outwardly he gave no sign. But he went often to Car- 
raline’s home; and he took occasion to treat Carl Jensen 
with overwhelming disdain. He whirled past him in the 
Ford without stopping for a nod, and when compelled to 
face him, he spoke with a haughty air which puzzled 
the young Dane more than it distressed him. At noon 
or in the evening, Hubert would sit on his front porch, 
overlooking the lake, and survey his friendship with 
Carraline, as it had existed since their childhood. They 
had been together constantly, and had regarded each 


254 


THE LAKE 


other almost as brother and sister. But he had never 
really seen her since she had grown up. He had per¬ 
versely retained the image of her as she had been in 
earlier years. He now considered what she had been 
through, the long bitter labours with renunciations, when 
she had hungered for opportunities which she could not 
have, and repressed her desires, her hopes, her youth. 
He felt indignant at what she must have suffered, and 
he told himself vaguely that someone ought to do some¬ 
thing for her, ought to make some effort to give her 
what she had missed. 

One day he burst out, when he was with her, “You’ve 
had a pretty mean time, I’ll say.” 

“I can’t quite say that,” she answered. “But I always 
wanted to get away, to go to school, and to see what’s 
in the world. I never could, and I can’t now, but I don’t 
know as it makes any difference.” 

Bert felt a throb of compunction. “I could have gone 
on, if I’d wanted to,” he said. “But I thought I’d rather 
farm it, and be back here in the place with my folks.” 
He had known that Alec had had some notion of pro¬ 
viding schooling for Carraline, but had given it up be¬ 
cause there never seemed to be a time when she could 
get away. 

“Well, your life is your life, and mine is mine,” she 
responded. Carraline seemed incapable of envying 
another person’s good fortune. “I had my place to fill. 
I guess it couldn’t have turned out any other way.” 

“If your father-” began Bert acridly. “He 

ought to have done something for you.” 

“He didn’t understand,” said Caddie. “He never 
knew how much I wanted things.” 

“He never cared,” said Bert, still with bitterness. 


THE LAKE 


255 


“No. Well, that was because he didn’t understand. 
He never seemed like a father,” the girl went on. “I 
mean, later, when I was old enough to think—that last 
summer that he was home—I used to look at him and 
think, why he was just a stranger that had got into 
the house.” 

“Yes.” Bert voiced an inner protest. “But folks are 
folks—your own, I mean.” 

“I never thought they were unless you cared for them,” 
said Caddie calmly. 

“I’ve heard you say something like that,” the boy 
replied. “But I’m afraid I don’t get you—except that 
two people that aren’t related sometimes like each other 
—awfully.” He grew self-conscious over this slight 
reference to the love of man and woman. 

His thought grew more and more suffused with this 
knowledge—of two people who might like each other 
awfully. But he was willing to wait, to think, to brood. 
They were both young yet. There was plenty of time. 

It was two years more before his thinking took shape 
in speech. 


CHAPTER V 


The two years were busy ones, with work on the 
farms, and winter courses at the Agricultural School in 
the State University. There had been some talk of 
Hubert’s going to war, but the Armistice was signed, 
and the war was over before he could be called. 

Then came exaltation and catastrophe. 

It was the summer in which Bert was twenty. Events 
began with the red currants. Alec McLean was away, 
buying machinery and looking up a new stabling ar¬ 
rangement. Hubert was staying with his mother while 
Alec was gone. One evening, after the early supper, 
he took the Ford and started out aimlessly for a ride. 
He went past the log house, towards the Chain of Lakes, 
and then decided to turn back. After he had turned, 
he glanced over his shoulder, and to his surprise saw old 
Mr. Gleason crossing the road, at some distance away. 
Though he had only a glance, he noted that the old 
man looked weary and walked ploddingly. He called 
to Mr. Gleason, intending to ask him to ride; but the 
old man either did not hear or pretended not to, and 
slipped into the bushes, disappearing in the direction 
of a short cut through the fields, toward Libbie Hunt’s. 
Bert called again, but had no answer. 

Making the mental comment, “Grampa certainly is 
getting queer,” Bert went on into the main road. With 
loud honking, he stopped his car in front of the Hunt 
256 


THE LAKE 257 

house. Presently Carraline came around the comer of 
the house. “Hello, there!” called Bert. 

“Hello!” answered Caddie. She was wearing a fresh 
and attractive black-and-white gingham gown. Smiling 
at Bert across the fence, she pushed back her damp hair 
from her forehead with red-stained fingers, then spread 
out her hands to look at them. “I’ve been picking cur¬ 
rants,” she said. “But we haven’t many this year.” 

“Your mother said you hadn’t,” Bert replied. “I’ve 
got stacks over at my place. We don’t use an awful 
lot. We like other kinds of jelly better.” He knew 
that Mrs. Hunt sold all the jelly that she could spare. 
“Get in, and I’ll take you over to the house, and we’ll 
pick some.” 

Carraline hesitated. “There’s plenty to do here,” she 
said. 

“Oh, come on,” urged Bert. “You can pick the rest 
of yours any time. Get some pails, and we’ll fill ’em up.” 

Carraline went to get the pails, and Bert hopped out, 
to help her into the car. They were soon bumping up 
the lane to his house. The currant bushes, between the 
house and the barn, were loaded with heavy red clusters. 
“Nine-tenths of ’em would have gone to waste,” Hubert 
explained. For half an hour they worked and talked, 
stopping now and then to eat a particularly luscious 
handful. “Oh, say,” cried Bert, suddenly bethinking 
himself, “I saw* Grampa Gleason, off in the woods to¬ 
ward the Chain.” He frowned over the tartness of the 
cluster which he had just put into his mouth. 

“Oh, did you?” answered Carraline quickly. “We’ve 
been wondering where he’s been, these days. Sometimes 
he’s been gone all the afternoon. He’d start off without 
saying anything, and stay for a long time, and then 


258 


THE LAKE 


when he came home he’d be all tired out. We don’t like 
to fuss with him about what he does, for it hurts his 
feelings, and he thinks we’re bothered because he doesn’t 
spend all his time working. So we just sort of let him 
go as he likes.” 

Bert continued to frown, as he looked at Caddie with 
troubled grey eyes across the currant bushes. “I don’t 
know,” he said, “whether that’s right or not. I should 
think he ought to be looked after. But of course you 
can’t keep your eye on him every minute; and I don’t 
know what damage he could do.” 

“No, I don’t, either,” said Carraline, looking worried. 
“He means so well, though he does get all mixed up, 
sometimes.” 

“Oh, well, when a man’s as old as he is, he ought to 
do about as he pleases,” commented Bert. “It’s kind 
of as if he was a little boy again.” 

“Yes, that’s it,” agreed Caddie absently, stripping a 
branch. “These certainly are lovely currants.” 

“Aw, never mind the currants,” answered Bert reck¬ 
lessly. “Come on. It’s a fine evening. Let’s walk down 
to the Point.” 

“Oh, dear! that’s like running away from school,” 
laughed the girl. “I am tired of working.” 

“Then come.” Bert came around the row of bushes, 
and took the pail out of his companion’s hand. They 
walked up to the house, and rinsed their fingers at the 
pump. Then they strolled out through the yard, and 
along the bank of the lake, beyond the hemlock grove. 
The sun was still above the horizon, casting long red 
rays through the bushes and among the boles of trees. 
There was no talk between the young people. As they 
passed the fenced plot of the cemetery, Bert, conscious 


THE LAKE 


259 


of the proximity of the graves, put out his arm and 
drew the girl to him protectingly. Neither of them said 
a word. They walked on a few steps farther; then he 
gently drew her closer, and leaned and kissed her. It 
seemed as natural a thing to do as breathing. He felt 
surprise that he was not more astonished or elated, that 
Carraline was not reluctant or tearful. It all seemed 
easy and simple, as if there had never been need for 
anything else. 

They went on silently to the Point. Here listless 
waves lapped against a little beach. Through an open¬ 
ing in the bass-wood branches and the boughs of June- 
berry and birch, they could look across to the end of 
the lake, a quarter of a mile away, softly outlined by 
a tamarack swamp. As they stood there beside the water, 
the ecstasy which they at first had missed came over 
them simultaneously. 

Hubert put his hands on the girl’s shoulders, looking 
into her eyes with grave tenderness. “Oh, Carraline, 
do you know what it means?” he cried. 

She bowed her head against his shoulder. “That we 
love each other,” she whispered, though there was no 
creature larger than a kingfisher to hear. 

“And always have,” he added in a whisper. 

“And are always going to,” she murmured. 

“Everything is changed,” he said, catching the wonder 
of it all. “There will never be a time when we don’t.” 

“Not ever,” she acquiesced. 

“We’ll always be together,” the boy made prophecy. 
“No matter what happens, nothing can make us give each 
other up.” He was carried away by the solemnity, the 
marvel of his words. “Nothing can make any differ¬ 
ence, keep us from loving, keep us from belonging.” 


260 


THE LAKE 


“That’s why we’ve lived here close together—why our 
fathers and mothers came here.” 

“That’s why we were born.” 

It was the old antiphony of love. 

“It’s—it’s wonderful,” breathed Caddie. 

“Did you know—did you know I cared?” asked 
Hubert in her ear. 

“I didn’t dare think about it,” she answered. 

“And you cared, too, all the time?” 

“Yes, I suppose so—I don’t know.” 

“We don’t know just when it began,” admitted Hubert. 

“No. It just seems as if it was always this way.” 

“And always would be.” This is the chorus of young 
love, Nothing can ever change . 

There was a rough bench beside the beach, which Bert 
had put there for use in bathing. They sat down now, 
close to each other, talking in low tones of their sudden 
miracle. Again Bert marvelled at his state of manliness, 
at his feat of talking love to a woman, of kissing her, 
holding her in his arms. He felt the pride of achieve¬ 
ment, which was his largess of the hour. 

The question of ways and means hardly counted with 
them in the bewilderment of first avowals. “We’ll have 
to wait a little,” said Bert at last. “They’ll say we’re 
pretty young.” 

“We are; or you are,” smiled Caddie, stroking his 
hand. 

He accepted her greater maturity without rancour. 

“But nobody can say what we should do,” he asserted 
stoutly, stern in his new-found independence. 

“There’s mother to think of,” said Caddie. “I don’t 
know-” 

“Well, Benjy and Flora May are older now,” he con- 


THE LAKE 


261 

soled her. “They don’t need you so much as they did. 
There must be some way to fix it up.” Everything 
seemed easy in this time and place. 

The sun had gone down, and dusk had begun to fall. 
The lovers rose, with the instinctive feeling that lyric 
joy will lose its perfection if prolonged. They rode 
home, entranced, saying little. “Let’s not tell anyone 
to-night,” said Bert, fearing an alien touch upon his 
happiness. “Let’s wait till to-morrow, anyhow.” 

“I’d just as lief,” said the girl, “though it seems as 
if I have to tell mother.” 

“You can tell her in a day or two,” Bert said, 

“Oh,” cried Carraline, remembering, “I’m going to 
Prattsville to-morrow, with the Hendrickses, to be gone 
all day. They’re going to take me in their car.” 

“Rats!” cried Hubert. “Then I can’t see you.” 

“Well, I didn’t know this was going to happen,” 
answered Carraline, with a laugh. 

“You might have known,” the boy responded. What 
had happened seemed now inevitable. They had stopped 
at the gate. “It’ll be great, thinking about it,” he said 
as he helped her out of the car. “And there’s time to 
see each other. There’ll be years and years just the 
same.” As they stood there, they had a vision of the 
three farms, and their little group of people, with lives 
and affections going on and on, unchanged and un¬ 
blighted, and their own love the golden centre of this 
enduring contentment. 

******* 

Bert spun home in a state of exaltation. When he 
had put away the car, he walked back and forth, under 
the trees in the gathering dusk. He was intent upon 


262 


THE LAKE 


the wonder of what had happened to him, on his startled 
and yet natural acceptance of what was his, to have and 
to hold. 

When he was a little chap, he had had a hard time; 
he had suffered, and Carraline had been his comfort. 
He turned back to that dreadful time before his father’s 
death. He had scarcely dared to let himself remember 
it, because it seemed so full of hurt and terror. Now 
it was softened, atoned for. It didn’t matter. Life was 
going to make up for everything. Life was good, beau¬ 
tiful, beneficent. He lifted his arms and stretched them 
out, reaching impatiently toward the future, wishing 
for time to pass, that what was to come might be un¬ 
folded. 

He went into the house. The greater part of it was 
dark, and cool winds were blowing the white curtains 
in the gloom. Averil McLean was in the sitting-room, 
reading beside the lamp. The warm light showed her 
a trifle stouter than she had been when she married 
Alec, and more settled looking, but handsomer, in the 
fashion of maturity. On the hand that held the maga¬ 
zine to the glow of the lamp, Alexander’s engagement 
ring sparkled below a plainer band. 

She looked up, when Hubert came into the room. 
“Have you been over to the other house, Bertie?” she 
asked. 

“Yes, I took Carraline over, to pick some currants,” 
he answered. 

She smiled. “That’s good. We can’t use them all.” 

There was a singing all through his body, a chanting 
in his heart. He felt a dim gratitude toward his 
mother for bringing him into the world—the world where 
he had found Carraline and love. He went and stood 


THE LAKE 


263 


beside her. She put up her hand and took his. There 
was a rush of emotion between them. It had seemed 
as if she had never dared to express the fullness of her 
love for him. Some remembrance or some fear had re¬ 
strained her. But now the completeness of their under¬ 
standing stood for a moment at the zenith. She yearned 
upward toward him. He leaned and kissed her, held 
her hand blindly for a minute, and then stumbled from 
the room. If he stayed longer, he would tell, and he 
wanted to keep his secret through the night, and per¬ 
haps another day. 

******* 

The next day he was absorbed within himself, with¬ 
drawn from the outer world, thinking—or not exactly 
thinking, but dreaming, feeling. He walked on moun- 
taintops. But withal he had begun to wonder how the 
older people about him were going to accept the news. 
He realized that he and Carraline would be regarded 
as young to make so serious a choice. But they knew, 
he told himself. They knew what they wanted, as 
well as if they were a hundred. Nothing could change 
them, no matter how long they waited, nor what might 
happen. 

He was aching to tell, stinging with curiosity as to 
what Alexander and Averil would say, glorying in his 
unexpected growing-up, in his decision and independence, 
self-satisfied with what he had done and what he was 
going to do. He was young, of course, but he wasn’t 
a baby. He had a settled place in life. He had a house 
and a farm of his own; he had a start even now that 
some young fellows had to work a long time to get. Why, 
he might have had to go on for years, renting a farm 


264 


THE LAKE 


or working one on the shares, trying to save money, so 
that he could have a place of his own. He was con¬ 
scious of a surprised stirring of gratitude toward his 
father. Never before had he felt so kindly toward Wil¬ 
lard Faraday. It was that hard demoniac labour of his 
which had paid for the farm, as well as his care with 
fertilizers and the rotation of crops, his thrift and 
economy and honesty. Of course it had improved under 
Alec’s supervision, and his own (Hubert’s) hard work. 
It was making more money than it did in the earlier 
days. It was richer, more productive, worth more. 

But after all, it was an heritage from his father, such 
as every young man should have at the beginning, not 
only as a substantial help in life, but as a sign of family 
solidarity, the passing on of values from father to son. 
Hubert could not phrase all this, but he saw the farm 
as something which he had gained by virtue of being 
his father’s son. It did not matter so much what that 
father had been like. The boy had never thought so 
deeply about family before. The idea came to him 
now with real solemnity. He was at once softened and 
enlightened. He spied upon the future. His own son 
should find something waiting for him, the fruit of his 
father’s prevision and toil. It was an exciting thought. 
Of course he would have a son; and his son should find 
nothing to be ashamed of in his father. Hubert dwelt 
sorrowfully upon the dead Willard. If Willard had 
only known how much it would have meant to his son 
to remember a father free from spot and blemish, per¬ 
haps he would have acted differently, would have left 
memories less repellant and less bitter. “Poor father!” 
Hubert found himself saying. He had understood so 
little, achieved so little happiness, won only a useless 


THE LAKE 265 

and tragic passing-out. It was almost unbearable to 
think of. Hubert felt compassion for his father mingled 
with his joy. 

The day was Saturday. In the afternoon, Hubert 
decided, after finishing a piece of work in the garden, 
to put on his bathing suit, and run over to the lake, 
in the Ford, and have a swim before dressing himself 
freshly for the Saturday night supper, which indicated 
a comparative cessation of the labours of the week. 
Arriving at his house, he left the car and walked down 
to the Point where he and Carraline had sat the day 
before. He was surprised to see how high the water 
was, and he recollected that yesterday he had been 
vaguely aware of the shrunken size of the little beach, 
though he had been too much absorbed to give it any 
notice. To-day he gave the matter more definite thought, 
recalling a number of heavy storms which had occurred 
during the last weeks. He made up his mind that the 
rain had been heavier than he had realized, raising the 
water to an unwonted height. 

After his swim, he sat for a few minutes on the bench, 
thinking about himself and Caddie. He felt a growing 
desire to let his mother know the great thing which had 
taken place. He must tell her. It would be another 
day or two before Alec would come back. Hubert and 
Averil would have the secret together, and then when 
the time came, Alec could be told. Alec would be 
glad, without a doubt. He liked Carraline; and the 
prospective marriage, even though suitably delayed, 
would mean that Hubert would settle down and stay in 
the old place, and things would go on without chang¬ 
ing. 

Yes, the boy resolved, he would tell his mother, and 


THE LAKE 


266 

they would telephone later to see whether Caddie had 
come home. If she had, he would go after her, and 
they would all have a little time of rejoicing together. 
Bert started up, half running through the grass. He 
could hardly wait now, to reveal his tremendous news. 
He ran lightly, happily, like a young animal exulting in 
the well-being of strength and summer. 

He made the car whir over the newly finished State 
road, which the advent of the automobile among the 
farmers had made imperative. He ran in at the back 
door of the house, across the newly scrubbed floor of the 
kitchen, and up the back stairs. 

His bare feet made no sound along the boards. He 
was not whistling, but dumb, intent on the wonder of 
what he had to say. In his room, he flung off the half¬ 
dry bathing suit, and got himself into shirt and trousers 
and stockings. He paused, engrossed, triumphant. Oh, 
he need not wait. Without putting on his shoes or 
smoothing his hair, he turned to go into his mother’s 
room. He had heard a sound, a footfall, a murmur or 
sigh, which had told him that she was there. Sound¬ 
lessly he moved along the strip of carpet in the hall 
The door of his mother’s room stood open. 

Averil was sitting before the old-fashioned chest of 
drawers, with the mahogany-framed mirror above it. 
One drawer was pulled out, and she had apparently 
taken something from it, which she held in her hand. 
Her head bent, she was looking down at it with fixed 
intentness. So oblivious was she that she did not hear 
the slight sound which the approach of Hubert may 
have made. He remembered that she had been sitting 
like that, years ago, when he burst in upon her with 
the news of his father’s death. 


THE LAKE 


267 


He stepped up behind her, and looked over her shoul¬ 
der. The thing which she was holding was a picture 
in a square leather case. He was not surprised to see 
that the picture showed the likeness of Alexander Mc¬ 
Lean—a younger Alec, not more than twenty-four, or 
even twenty-three; with thick, untidy hair and a low 
collar; a boyish picture which represented him as he 
had been when he had first come to that neighbourhood 
from New York State. Hubert wondered why he had 
never seen the picture before. 

Aware now of the presence behind her, Averil started, 
clutching at the leather case in her hand. At the same 
moment, Hubert raised his eyes and saw his own reflec¬ 
tion in the glass. Was it his own? It was the exact 
duplicate of the face in the picture which his mother 
held. His eyes travelled down and up again, to the 
amazing vision in the mirror—the fresh young face, the 
thick, untidy hair, the strong, well-poised throat. The 
face was the image of that below. 

Hubert stood still, hardly breathing. It was as if 
a door had opened in his consciousness, and he saw what 
he had never seen before, and yet had always known. 
The world rocked. Averil, staring up at him, saw his 
face go white, his hands reached gropingly for the back 
of her chair and the edge of the dresser. She rose, 
pushing away the chair, which fell with an unheeded 
clatter. She was terrified, shrinking. She knew, before 
his lips moved, what he was going to say. His hand 
went unsteadily toward the mirror, and then toward 
the picture which she still held in her fingers. “‘Mother!” 
he whispered, “the pictures—there—and there-” 

“What of them?” she asked, to gain time, to make 
some pretense, to hold off what was coming. 



268 THE LAKE 

He paid no heed to her parrying. “Mother —is Alec 
my father?’’ 

She cringed away from him, her back to the wall. 
Her face was as white as his. The fear and shame of 
a lifetime were in her eyes. 

“Mother—is he—is he-” The boy could not re¬ 

peat what he had said. 

Still she did not speak, hoping fatuously to escape 
the anguish of admission. 

He came toward her, blazing-eyed and threatening, 
his hands clenched. “Answer me,” he commanded 
hoarsely. “Is it true?” 

She put her hand before her eyes. “Yes. Yes.” Her 
murmur hardly reached him. Guilt and horror were but 
half concealed. 

Hubert shrank back from her, closing his eyes, reach¬ 
ing again for the steadying solidity of the chest of 
drawers. Now he knew. A minute before he had been 
ignorant of the mystery which lay behind his life; now 
it was as if it had never been unknown to him. Of 
course. Stupid, blind idiot that he had been! Of course 
Alec McLean was his father! 

He turned and went through the hall, down the front 
stairs, out of the house. He was unmindful of the fact 
that he wore no shoes, that he was only half dressed. 
He strode out as in a daze, not knowing where he went, 
except that he was seeking something dear and familiar. 
The universe fell in fragments, the worlds receded, chaos 
reigned. 

As he went along the road he saw nothing, heard 
nothing. One sentence kept repeating itself, “Now I 
know.” That which had ever baffled him was clear. 


THE LAKE 


269 


With ineffable contempt, he cursed his doltish wit. 
Why hadn’t he seen it all before? Had he never looked 
into Alec’s face? Had he never seen his own image in 
the glass? He walked dishevelled, staring, as if he went 
in darkness. He heard a voice which he did not recog¬ 
nize as his won, panting out oaths, “By God! By 
God!” 

He never knew whether he met anyone on the road 
or not. He did not remember passing the house in which 
Carraline lived. After a while he found that he was 
opening the gate and walking up the lane to his own 
house. He saw the warm afternoon sun shining upon 
it, the fresh white paint, the green shutters, the neatness 
and serenity of it, with the dark hemlocks beyond, shut¬ 
ting it into its own circle. Presently he was on the 
steps of the house, overlooking the lake. He sat there 
a long time; he did not know how long. He was not 
thinking; for thinking was an impossible mental effort. 
His mind was boiling, seething, with a consciousness of 
something new and yet old and horrible and appalling. 
There was nothing coherent, nothing defined. All was 
without form and void. Then one thing stood up again, 
like a peak of pain. Alexander McLean was his father; 
his mother was an abandoned woman, a shameless hypo¬ 
crite; and the world had gone to pieces. 

He rose and walked, walked up and down, to the gate 
and back, out to the barn, down to the shore, where 
the water lapped high, along the path to Willard’s grave. 
He felt the stones and harsh roots and stubs against 
his feet. He went back to the house, found shoes and 
put them on, and then wandered from room to room. 
He heard his telephone ringing, but did not answer. He 


270 


THE LAKE 


had nothing to say to any one, and an instinct of cau¬ 
tion warned him to make no revelations over the wire. 

******* 

Some time afterward he was on the porch again. 
The long, summer twilight was beginning. He saw his 
mother coming. She was hurrying up the lane, in her 
pretty afternoon dress and an old hat which she wore 
in the garden. She had walked all the way; her shoes 
were covered with dust. He knew that she did not like 
walking. 

He sat watching her in a detached way, until she was 
near. Then he stood up stiffly, trying to keep his face 
expressionless. As she came on, relief was depicted in 
her face, overshadowed by her deadly suffering. “Oh, 
you're all right," she gasped. 

“All right?" He spoke with amazement and irony. 
Could he ever be all right again? 

“I didn't know where you were," she stammered. “I 
waited for you to come back, and I hunted all around 
our place, and tried to telephone to you. I was afraid 
you might—do something-" 

^Mother—would it be strange?" he said. 

“Oh, Bert!" 

“With such a mother." 

She held out her hands. “But, my dearest, you do 
love me—you have loved me!" 

“Yes." He looked at and beyond her. “When I 
didn't know—what you were." 

“I'm not bad," she cried sharply. “You know I’m 
not—not-" 

“What is bad?" he queried. “What does a man ex¬ 
pect his mother to be?" 


THE LAKE 


271 


“Oh, but, Bertie,” she cried, “if you knew, if you knew 
what I’ve suffered!” She was wringing her hands. 

“You ought to suffer,” he made response. “And how 
about my f—about Willard Faraday? Didn’t he suffer? 
I can see it all now—what he went through. And I was 
pitying you—everybody was pitying you.” He stopped. 
“Who knows about this?” 

“No one, Bert,” she told him, her voice beseeching 
credence. “Not a soul, unless someone has guessed.” 
She thought of Libbie Hunt. Probably she understood. 
“I’ve never heard a whisper. Don’t think about that.” 

“How can I help thinking about that?” With bitter 
mockery he went on, “How do I know who sneers at 
me behind my back?” He seemed to see a whole cloud 
of neighbours, mowing and gibbering, pointing and 
snickering. 

“Oh, Bertie, it isn’t true,” she protested. “It isn’t. 
Nobody knows” 

“Well, I know now,” he answered. His shoulders 
drooped. His hands hung at his sides. “I know what 

my mother is—a hypocrite—a liar—a—a-” His lips 

were untrained in the words that he should use. He 
stuttered, his mouth twitching. His mind was probing 
her past. “Why, you must have been—all those years 
—Pah!” He shuddered. “Go home. Go away. I don’t 
want to look at you.” 

“But, Bertie”—she stood her ground, though she was 
shaking—“it was a long time ago. Can’t you forgive 
me?” 

“A long time ago—more than twenty years,” he said. 
He threw out his arms passionately. “But Vm here— 
who’s to blame for that? Vm here . And I’ve got to 
go on being me, and knowing—knowing ” His voice 



272 


THE LAKE 


broke. “And I was going to tell you about Carraline 

and me—we were—we-” He turned, leaning his arm 

against the post of the porch, and his head on his arm. 
He was groaning and shivering. 

In the midst of her torment, his words were a relief 
•— I’ve got to go on being me. Then he would not do 

anything terrible, would not- 

He was speaking again, “What is there left for me?” 
“Why, Bert, there’s a lot. There’s your place—and 
Carraline.” Her heart leaped. Here was a hold upon 
him. “There’s Carraline. And Alec and me—we love 

you. It’s all just the same, Bert; only-” 

He turned on her savagely. “Only —yes, only. It 
can’t ever be the same. You and Alec! My mother 
and my father! I hate you both. Go away. Go 
away. I don’t want you here. I don’t want to see you. 
Go away, before I throw you in the lake.” He had 
raised his voice, in the wild clamour of youth outraged. 
She shrank. “By God, I will! I’ll throw you in. I’ll 
give you what you deserve!” 

She stepped back from his clutches, but did not flee. 
The paroxysm passed. He saw how foolish he was, how 
crazily he was acting. He put out his hand. “No, no. 
You needn’t be afraid. I won’t do it. But oh, mother, 
mother, could you blame me if I did?” 

She stood trembling, longing to take him in her arms, 
to comfort him for that for which there was no comfort, 
to shield him from the consequencees of too much know¬ 
ing. “Perhaps not,” she said reluctantly. “But, oh, 
my dearest, I love you just the same.” 

He sank down dully, covering his face again. “Go 
home. I’ve got to think it out.” 

“Can’t I stay?” she asked timidly. “I’ll go into the 



THE LAKE 273 

house. I’ll keep quiet. I’ll get you something to eat.” 
She felt a throbbing desire to minister to him. 

“No, no! I can’t have you here. Go on. Go home. 
It’s getting late.” He was aware of the caroling of 
whippoorwills, the flight of bats, the onrush of dew and 
darkness. The house withdrew into the shadows of the 
hemlocks. The boy took his mother by the arm not 
ungently, and urged her toward the lane which led to 
the highway. With one backward pleading glance she 
was gone, her head down, her step precarious. She had 
gone home. He followed her with his mind, as she had 
so often followed his father on the same road. 

******* 

Bert stayed there on the porch while the moon rose 
behind the hemlocks, and began sprinkling its silver 
flakes along the water. The house and the nearer shore 
were in the shadow, for the house faced the west. The 
higher the moon climbed, the wider its reflection grew 
upon the lake. It was such a night as the farmer loves, 
even though he be less than poet. The whole summer 
world seemed quickening and pulsing in the procreative 
dusk. 

The thoughts of the boy were chiefly of Carraline. 
What could he be to her now? He felt himself polluted. 
It was as if he had some foul disease in his flesh. He 
could never marry, to disgrace a wife with his sinful 
origin, never have children, to besmirch them with the 
taint on his own birth. He could never be anything 
but a living image of shame. There was no palliation 
for his passing on such an image to another generation. 
He could never marry Carraline without telling her. 
He figured the shock and horror which the girl would 


274 


THE LAKE 


feel in hearing his hideous tale. She would, and rightly, 
refuse to have anything to do with any of them again. 

Here was the end of everything that had seemed so 
unending, so perfect and intact. It was laughable to 
see how soon all that he had thought so indestructible 
had been destroyed. He laughed, scaring some little 
creature in the bushes, so that it padded off through 
the leaves in sudden panic. Bert rose and walked about 
in the wet grass. Again he approached the enclosed 
graveyard beside the lake. He remembered wondering, 
long ago, whether his father knew that he was buying 
graves when he bought this farm. 

He looked back at the circumstances of his father’s 
death. The question leaped upon him: Did Alec McLean 
kill Willard Faraday? An uncontrollable shudder¬ 
ing seized the boy. He held to the picket fence for 
support. The heinousness of the second crime redoubled 
that of the first. Perhaps Willard had found out, and 
Alec had killed him to keep him still. Perhaps the two 
men had quarreled, and had fought each other in the 
winter woods. Hubert peered into the past, trying to 
remember what had happened on that tragic day eight 
years before. What had been said and done? He re¬ 
called the fact that as he came upon the scene in the 
forest, he had heard his own name spoken. What 
took place during the minute afterward he could not 
know. 

He strove to remember the incidents that followed. 
Had there been an inquest? He thought not. He 
seemed to remember that old Dr. Frame had signed a 
paper that made everything all right. How had other 
people felt about the matter? Had they suspected Alec, 
without daring to voice their suspicions? He had been 


THE LAKE 


275 


too blind in those days to dream of such a thing, and 
now even the existence of Willard and his taking off 
seemed to have vanished from men’s minds. 

Regaining his strength, Hubert moved away from the 
fenced plot and walked back and forth, tramping through 
the dewy bushes, not heeding where he went. He dwelt 
in thought on Alec—Alec whom he had loved so much, 
who seemed kind and gentle, like a perfect father. Was 
he, could he be a libertine and a murderer? And did 
people know the relationship between father and son? 
Surely they had looked with wisdom on his face and on 
Alec’s; surely they had seen what he had seen in the 
mirror! Of a truth, not everybody could be blind. And 
yet almost everybody took a man’s father for granted. 
It had never occurred to him to question the paternity 
of his friends. The world suddenly became a place full 
of infamous secrets, of hidden dishonours, of skulking 
shames. 

Then, as ever, his thoughts came back to Carraline. 
If he could only purify himself for her, with sacrifices, 
tear his pollution from his flesh, restore himself by some 
prodigious effort to the status of a free-born man! He 
groaned, rending at his breast in his agony of spirit. 

The hours had gone on. The east paled, and birds 
cheeped in the thickets. At last the boy made his way 
heavily back to his house and went in. Fumbling on 
the shelf, he found matches and a lamp. Fierce youth¬ 
ful hunger had asserted itself. There was always food 
in cans and boxes on the pantry shelves. He ate some¬ 
thing, he scarcely knew what. Leaving the lighted lamp 
on the table, he went up to his room, and threw himself 
down in a deep sleep. When he awoke, it was late in 
the forenoon. His sorrows rushed in upon him, like a 


276 


THE LAKE 


flood. He dragged himself downstairs to the kitchen, 
and made a wretched attempt at eating and drinking. 
Brooding, he went out at the back door, to attend to 
the work at the barn. Then he went out to his fields, 
and toiled furiously at pulling weeds out of the corn. 
He had forgotten that it was Sunday. As he went, he 
heard his telephone ringing, but he did not answer. He 
had nothing to say. 

An hour later, he was aware that clouds were dark¬ 
ening the sky. Later yet, he saw Libbie Hunt, in her 
grey calico gown, coming down the rows. Her nor¬ 
mally ruddy face was wan and anxious. He stood 
leaning on his hoe awaiting her approach, with a sullen 
look of self-defense. 

“Your mother asked me to come and talk to you/’ 
Mrs. Hunt explained as she drew near. 

“She needn’t,” he said sulkily. 

“It’s funny,” remarked Libbie with irrelevance; “the 
lake looks awful queer and hateful. I declare, I never 
saw the water so high. What makes it, do you think?” 

“Why, I don’t know,” he answered, hardly hearing 
what she said. The height of the water seemed of 
small consequence. 

“Your mother telephoned me, and asked me to come 
and see you,” repeated Mrs. Hunt. 

“I don’t see why.” A deep, red flush overspread the 
face of the boy. Choking, he turned away to hide his 
shame. “I suppose—you know,” he said. 

“She didn’t say anything, except to go and see you. 
She wouldn’t, over the ’phone, you know,” replied Mrs. 
Hunt. 

“Then you guessed—or you always knew,” returned 
Hubert. 


THE LAKE 


277 


“No,” she made answer slowly. “I don’t know any- 

“No. I haven’t said a word to her. I slipped out 
thing but that you’re in trouble.” 

“Does Caddie know?” he asked abruptly, 
without telling her where I was going.” 

“Of course she’ll hate me now,” he burst out passion¬ 
ately. He was growing white under his tan. 

Libbie came a step closer to him. She reached out 
a hand to touch him, but he shrank away. “Dear Bert,” 
she said, with tenderness in her voice, “she won’t hate 
you. She couldn’t do that. And why should we let 
her know?” 

He stared at her in angry stupefaction. “Not let 
her know,” he cried, “and go on and keep her fooled, 
and marry her after a while! Do you think I could 
be such a skunk as that? No, that’s not me.” 

“You take this too hard, Bert.” There were tears in 
Libbie’s eyes, tears of pain for the suffering which she 
saw. “It ain’t anything that affects you —it ain’t, really, 
Bert. If you’d only listen-” 

He flung himself away from her, and tramped up and 
down the rows, waving her off with agitated hands. 
“Don’t try to tell me that sort of stuff,” he cried. “I’m 
not a baby. I guess I can see.” 

“Oh, Bert, dear, do listen,” Elizabeth pleaded. 

“No.” 

“It ain’t your fault,” the woman went on, “and why 
should you suffer? It can’t touch you, the real you. 
Can’t you see that, Bertie?” 

“No, I can’t see any such nonsense.” In his heart he 
had put away her words to think about, but he would 
not let her know. “Don’t try to argue with me,” he 
said wearily. “There isn’t anything to be said.” 


278 


THE LAKE 


Libbie sighed, drooping. “Don’t take it so hard,” 
she said again. 

“I have to take it hard,” he responded, wondering 
how anyone could take it in any other way. 

“What good does it do?” she queried. “Everybody 
has to go on living, same as ever.” 

“Have they?” he retorted. 

“Of course they have.” 

“I’m not so sure.” 

“Of course they do. Of course they must,” she an¬ 
swered breathlessly. 

“We’ll see,” he said grimly. Then he tried to force 
an ordinary tone. “Now, Mrs. Hunt, you’d better go 
home. It’s going to rain and rain mighty hard, I’m 
pretty sure.” 

Libbie scanned the sky anxiously. “I believe it is,” 
she conceded. “I hate to go and leave you like this.” 

“You needn’t,” he replied. “And you can tell Caddie 
all you know. I wish you would,” he called, as she 
moved away. 

“Well, I guess I will,” she called back. “It might be 
the best thing.” The wind was rustling the young corn, 
turning the long blades inside out; and clouds were 
growing blacker. 

Bert called to her again. “I’m sorry I haven’t the 
car, to take you home. I—I walked over when I came.” 

“It’s all right,” she answered. “And I suppose you’ve 
forgot that it’s Sunday, haven’t you? Folks don’t go 
pulling weeds on Sunday.” 

Oh, is it?” said Bert. The day of the week seemed 
as unimportant as the height of the water. But 
when Libbie was out of sight, he went slowly up to 
the house. The church bells at the village had begun 


THE LAKE 


279 


to ring. He was relieved to know that Libbie Hunt 
must have reached home before the rain began. When 
it came, it fell with a steady beating thud, which offered 
no abatement as the day wore on. 

******* 

Alexander McLean arrived home in the dusk of that 
rain-swept day. Not finding his wife below stairs, he 
went up at once to her room. He found her lying on 
the bed, with her face hidden, her attitude one of despair¬ 
ing grief. 

His voice rang with a quick terror. “Averil! What 
is it?” He bent over her, putting a hand to her shoul¬ 
der. 

She raised her head, turning to look at him with hol¬ 
low eyes. “Alec, he knows,” she said; “Bertie knows.” 

He did not ask her what. “Well,” he said, steeling 
himself for what might come. 

Averil let her forehead fall again upon her arm. Alec 
stood beside the bed, lacking words. 

“We couldn’t expect to go much longer without his 
knowing,” she said in a muffled voice. 

“But how-” Alec began. 

“He saw your picture, the one I have in the case, and 
then his own face in the glass,” Averil told him. “He 
guessed. It came to him all at once.” 

‘"And did you tell him it was true?” 

“I had to; he made me do it,” she defended herself. 

“I see.” There was even a shade in Alec’s tone as 
if he welcomed this news, with its assuaging of the neces¬ 
sity for pretense. Then the man spoke stormily, “I 
don’t know why you should suffer any more. You’ve had 
enough.” 


280 


THE LAKE 


She sat up, looking into his face. “These last years 
have made it up to me, Alec, even though I was living 
in dread of this.” 

He bent and pulled her to her feet, and held her in his 
arms. “Have you been happy with me, Averil?” 

“Yes, Alec, you know I have,” she answered. “If it 
all has to stop for both of us now, I can say that I’m 
satisfied.” 

He held her off, and fixed her with startled eyes. “Do 
you mean—you think it ought to stop for both of us?” 

“I don’t know—perhaps it would be best-” 

“You mean-” 

“I don’t know what I mean.” 

“That we ought to—die?” 

“Oh, Alec!” She had her face against his shoulder. 

“But that wouldn’t do any good, would it?” he pro¬ 
tested with white intensity. “There’s Bert. He’d still 
be here.” 

“It might—save him,” she said. 

“How, Averil?” he asked gently. 

“If we were gone, he might feel that things were made 
up for—that he could live and marry Caddie, and go 
on.” 

“Marry Caddie?” he echoed. “Had they—was that 
settled, then?” 

“Yes.” 

Alec meditated, gazing out through the darkening win¬ 
dow, at a tree tossed and beaten by rain. “I don’t want 
to die,” he said at last. “I want to live on and on— 
with you.” 

“It isn’t what we want,” she returned slowly. “It was 
once, and that’s what has put us where we are.” 

He still meditated. “If we were sure it was the right 



THE LAKE 


281 


thing, we could do it.” He crushed her in his arms. “But 
you—could you, Averil?” His face was close against 
hers. “We love each other. Who knows what may 
come—after?” His whisper stopped. He caught his 
breath sharply. 

She clung to him. “I shall have to go alone,” she 
thought. 

After a while, Alec said, ‘Til go and see him. Maybe 
I can do something.” 

“I don’t know what it would be,” she murmured. “I’ve 
been over there. He seems so hard, so unforgiving.” 

“We can’t blame him for that,” said Alec quickly. “It’s 
hard—hard-” 

“I know,” she faltered. 

He loosed his arms from her, and turned toward the 
door. “I’ll go and see him,” he said. 

She tried to delay his going. “Won’t you stay and 
eat?” she asked. 

“No, I couldn’t now,” he answered. “And Averil, you 
know—there’s just a chance that I may not come back.” 

She groaned, and held out her arms to him. He 
closed the door softly, and went away. With shaking 
hands, she lighted a lamp, fearing the dark. As she 
passed the looking-glass, she saw her own pale face where 
her son’s had stood reflected. On her knees beside the 
bed, she tried to pray. What is God, she thought, that 
He should know these things? She remembered that 
she had read somewhere in the Bible, Thou art of purer 
eyes than to behold evil, and canst not look on iniquity. 
She seemed to see that petitions were of no avail. If she 
were to take any hold on God, she must rise to some 
higher sense of Love. 


282 


THE LAKE 


Alexander McLean splashed through water and mud 
in the driving storm. When he saw the light in the 
window of the house beside the lake, he gave a long 
gasping breath of relief. The little lane was overflowing 
with water at its lowest spot, but Alec was too much 
absorbed to notice. He swung himself from the car, 
and tramped up to the trellised door of the dining-room, 
where the rose vine swayed drippingly. He knocked, 
and then turned the knob. Hubert stood in the door¬ 
way leading to the front room. All the afternoon he 
had sat brooding, watching the grey and troubled waters 
creeping up the shore. He had eaten scantily, lighted 
his lamp, and had spent an hour pacing back and forth 
through the house. The two men stared uncertainly 
at each other. Through the open door the dampness 
drove in, with the incessant pouring and gurgling of the 
rain. The startled face of the boy showed the lines of 
his long misery. The lines hardened as he looked upon 
the face of the man. His shoulders were hunched, his 
body drooped. He held with both hands to the frame of 
the doorway. He did not speak. 

“Bert!” said Alec thickly. Even at that tragic mo¬ 
ment, there was in the heart of the man an unquench¬ 
able joy in openly claiming his son. “Bert, I hoped— 
I hoped that when you found it out, you’d be glad.” 

“Glad!” repeated the boy in an astounded voice. 
“What do you mean—glad?” 

“Why, that you’re—who you are.” Alec was stirred 
by violent emotion. “You have cared for me, Bert.” 
Love is a hard word to say, between men. 

“Yes.” The boy considered, dully. “I’ve thought as 
I’ve been sitting here this afternoon, that maybe, under 


THE LAKE 


283 


everything, I’d cared for you better than anyone else 

—until just yesterday, when Carraline and I- Then 

I saw that she was—most of all-” He could not 

go on. 

Alec made a sign of understanding. He closed the 
door and came forward, with eager affection in his ges¬ 
ture. Hubert flinched and stepped backward into the 
semi-darkness of the other room. “Can that be blotted 
out?” cried the older man, in suddenly unveiled excru¬ 
ciation. 

“Yes.” The face of the boy was hard and contemptu¬ 
ous, and his voice was harsh with repulsion. 

“Oh, it can’t be, lad!” 

“Why not?” cried the boy roughly. “What do you 
imagine can make up for—for what has happened?” 

The man was humble in his answer. “Only one thing 
—that we care for you so much, your mother and I.” 

“Care!” answered Hubert’s tortured voice. “You 

didn’t care, when you—when you- Then you didn’t 

think what I might suffer.” 

“No. Folks don’t think,” said Alec gravely. “But, 
Bert, ever since you came- 

“Wait!” cried Hubert, leaning forward to look into his 
father’s face. He had bethought himself of his question: 
“Did you kill my—did you kill Willard Faraday?” 

Alec started, but did not move from where he stood. 
A perceptible pallor overspread his face. His eyes took 
on the look of one who sees the past, recalls a day when 
horror reigned supreme. “I expected you’d ask me that,” 
he said, not without dignity. “I’ll tell you about it.” 
He began striding back and forth between door and door. 

But Hubert would not wait. He rose to his full height, 



284 


THE LAKE 


which was not less than that of Alec, and advanced 
upon his father threateningly. “Did you, or didn’t you?” 
His voice was lifted in fury. 

“I did,” said Alec. Hubert took a step nearer. “And 
didn’t,” the older man corrected himself. “I suppose I 

did. And yet I wasn’t to blame. I didn’t know—I-” 

He broke down, shivering. Then he controlled himself, 
and went on: “He accused me. He said I was your 
father—he had never said it out before. He dared me 
to deny it. I didn’t say anything. I just stood look¬ 
ing. What could I say? Then he came for me with his 
axe. I picked up a big limb of a tree to ward it off. 
But he came at me like a crazy man. I struck out to 
defend myself. I suppose I hit him; I didn’t know. The 
axe fell down. He laid there in the snow—you saw him. 
There was blood on the snow-” 

“Yes.” Bert saw the picture. 

“Any court would clear me,” said Alec calmly. 

“How do I know this is true?” the younger man re¬ 
turned, insultingly dubious. 

“You don’t know,” answered Alec. “You have my 
word.” 

“Your word!” 

“Yes. Have I ever lied to you?” 

“No, you haven’t,” said Hubert reluctantly. “Yes, 
you have, too,” he added with fierceness. “You’ve lied 
all these years by keeping still.” 

Alec McLean sat down wearily in a chair beside the 
table. “Well, now you know all there is to know,” he 
said. “What’s your idea of what we all ought to do? 
How can we make it up to you? Do you think that 
somebody ought to die?” 

Hubert stared at the floor, sullenly. “According to 


THE LAKE 


285 


right, mother ought to be the one,” he said, choking. 
“She was the false one—deceiving her man, bringing 
another man’s child into the world.” Alec was silent, 
watching the young, tormented face. “But what good 
would it do?” Bert argued aloud with himself. “I’d be 
here. She’s given life to me. Her dying wouldn’t take 
it away.” 

“I guess we’d both be willing,” said Alec gravely, “if 
it could do any good. But, Bert, what good would it 
do? Can’t we all go on, just the same, caring for each 
other just as much? It doesn’t make such an awful 
difference, does it, in the long run? And if you could 
have chosen wouldn’t you rather belong to me, that you 
liked—you know you did, my boy—than to Willard, 
that you didn’t like?” 

It was a shrewd question. Bert could parry it only 
by a sneer. “You two’d get away pretty easy,” he 
said, “if I’d only be as mushy as that.” 

“We haven’t got away easy,” the older man made 
heavy reply. “Let your mind rest, as far as that goes. 
If you wanted us to suffer, you have the satisfaction 
of knowing that we’ve suffered—all you’d want us to.” 
His brevity was pregnant with years of regret and 
dread. 

Bert was silent. He went into the dark front room, 
and walked about. The pounding of the storm seemed 
heavier and more ominous. At last he came to the 
door. “I guess you’d better go, Alec,” he said. “I don’t 
believe we’ve got much more to say. I thought once 
or twice that I’d kill you when I saw you. But I don’t 
feel that way now. If anyone’s got to go, I guess it 
ought to be— me” 

Alec started up, protesting. Bert held him off. “It 


286 


THE LAKE 


won’t be to-night,” he said. “I promise. I’ve got to 
think it over. And I want to see Carraline again.” 

“You promise?” said Alec shakily. His hands went 
out toward his son. 

“Yes. You can depend on it,” the younger man an¬ 
swered. “You’d better go. It’s an awful storm. 
Mother’ll be worried about you.” At the name, he put 
his hand to his lips to hide their trembling. 

Alec went, baffled and dejected. The noise of his car 
was muffled in the wind and rain. 

******* 

Hubert lay awake in the darkness, listening to the 
raging downpour. His thoughts dwelt by turns on the 
persons of his little group, on Libbie Hunt and Carraline, 
on Alec, on Averil, and on himself. He thought of his 
father and mother, hiding their love for years, repress¬ 
ing themselves, acting a part. Knowing love now, he 
could see what such repression implied. Try as he would, 
he could not completely uproot the pity which crept 
in between the crevices of his hate. All those years! 
How had they borne them, and turned a steady face 
to the world? 

But greater than his pity for them was pity for him¬ 
self. Ego rose up and towered. I am destroyed. My 
light has gone out. My life is ruined. I can never 
be what I hoped. The happiness that belonged to me 
has been snatched away. I am overcome, blighted, 
annihilated. Overwhelming sorrow for his own devasta¬ 
tion shut out from the youth his vision of all else. 

Tossing, aching, he scrutinized everything, from the 
beginning to the end. He saw how all his life and the 


THE LAKE 


287 


others’ had led up to this hour. He surveyed his child¬ 
hood, with its misery, which he now knew how to inter¬ 
pret as the fruit of Willard Faraday’s jealous hate. He 
looked back upon the incidents which he could remember, 
such as the casting away of the watch and the breaking 
of the dishes, on his twelfth birthday. Now he knew 
why Willard had been roused to frenzy by another 
man’s presents to the boy. He recalled other events. 
Something—he did not know what—had happened in 
a thunderstorm, one night when Alec had stayed at the 
farm during the harvesting. Then there were the peril¬ 
ous moments when Willard had bullied and beaten him, 
after he had been out with Alec in the woods along the 
Chain. He perceived the danger in which he and his 
mother had lived during that last year, danger from 
which he had been a mental sufferer, even though he 
had not been conscious of it. He remembered that 
Willard had read passages out of the Bible, about 
slaying his son, and had reiterated phrases about sacri¬ 
fice. 

It all passed before him like the succession of scenes 
in a moving picture. There were the times when Alec 
had taken down the portrait of his own mother, and 
had compared it with Hubert’s face; and the times when 
Willard had clutched at the boy’s arm and studied his 
countenance for a telltale likeness. A hundred such 
memories rushed upon him, beating against his mind, 
confusing him, agonizing him. He saw himself the vic¬ 
tim of this monstrous iniquity of others, slain on the 
altar of secret sin. Slain. That was it. There was 
nothing now for him but death. If he went, the others 
could go on with their lives, atoning as they chose for 


288 


THE LAKE 


their transgressions, doing what they liked with what 
was left to them. He wanted to see Carraline again. 
This much he would grant himself. Then he would find 
a way to go. The thought of Carraline was an unbear¬ 
able pang. She would grieve over him a little, he knew, 
lamenting the destruction of their hopes. But in the 
end she would find someone else, someone who had no 
stain upon his birth. The Ego wept hot tears upon the 
pillow, in the sounding dark of storm and isolation. 

******* 

Monday morning came, wet and grey, but rainless. 
It was not till then that Libbie Hunt told Carraline the 
truth. She found the girl crying as she got the clothes 
ready for the wash. The unexplained absence of Bert 
on Sunday had hurt her pride and dimmed the glory of 
her lovely secret. 

“Dear, Eve got something to tell you,” said Libbie, 
taking the children’s soiled garments out of the hands 
of the girl. “Come into my room.” 

The pity in the mother’s voice made Carraline cry 
out with the shrillness of terror. “It’s about Bert. Oh, 
mother—is he ” 

“No, no. Not the way you think.” Libbie soothed 
her with a caress. “But he’s hurt, he’s terribly hurt in 
his heart, Caddie. He’s found out something.” 

Carraline had sat down on the edge of the bed, in 
the weakness of relief. “Why, what could he find out?” 
she asked. 

“Something about his father.” 

“How queer! What did Mr. Faraday ever do, mother, 
that was so bad?” asked the girl, wonderingly. 

“Nothing, as I know,” Libbie answered. “Well, what 



THE LAKE 289 

he did was bad enough. But, Caddie, Willard wasn’t 
Bert’s father.” 

“Wasn’t—why, what do you mean, mother?” Caddie 
was aghast. 

“I mean, his father was someone else. His father is 
Alec McLean.” 

Bewilderment gave way to horror in the girl’s eyes. 
“Are you sure?” she asked, almost angrily. 

Libbie nodded. 

“Did you just find it out?” asked Carraline, “or have 
you known it a long time?” 

“A long time,” said Libbie slowly. “I guess I don’t 
know just when I was sure.” 

“And Bert knows it now—is that what you mean?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, poor Bert!” Carraline’s mouth quivered. She 
saw his mother as he would see her—the Scarlet Woman. 
She wrung her hands. “What is he going to do? Have 
you seen him, mother?” 

“Yes, I saw him yesterday. Averil and Alec have both 
been over. I don’t know what he’ll do. He’s half wild 
with it. Caddie, I’m afraid-” 

Caddie screamed. “Oh, mother, he wouldn’t!” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I must go to him. I must go.” She ran to the door. 

Libbie detained her. “I told him it didn’t make any 
difference. He can’t see it. He thinks it’s ruined your 
life and his. He thinks he’s a kind of an outcast.” 

“Poor Bert!” 

“Wait,” said Libbie. “Don’t you want me to hitch 
up the horse and buggy for you? You can’t walk. The 
road’s full of mud.” 

“I can’t wait,” cried the girl. “I’d rather walk, any- 


290 THE LAKE 

way. I can think what to say.” She was running down 
the stairs. 

******* 

When she came within sight of the lake, she was horri¬ 
fied to see the height of the water. The lower road, 
where the farmers drove in their teams for a drink, 
was entirely obliterated; but the upper highway was 
intact. Caddie made her way swiftly beyond obstruct¬ 
ing trees, until she could get a view of the house. She 
saw that the water was halfway up the front yard. 
The lane was under water, and the greater part of the 
lower field. Only by making a long detour could she 
find land dry enough to walk upon, in order to come up 
to the house. At first the place seemed deserted. She 
breathed a prayer of gratitude when she saw Bert come 
out upon the porch. She hallooed to him. He came 
down and toward her without a word. “What makes 
the water so high?” she called. “It’s awful. Aren’t you 
scared?” 

He shook his head. “I guess it’s the rain. I can’t 
worry.” He had other things to worry about. 

They were putting off what they had to say. They 
stood looking at each other under the drenched acacias. 
“Bert, let me talk to you,” said the girl, pleadingly, 
frightened by the hardness of his face. 

“I don’t want you to,” he said. “You’d carry me away 
by my feelings, not by what I know.” He held aloof 
from her. 

“Do you know what is right?” she asked abruptly. 

“No, I don’t.” He spoke in a tone of surprise. 

“Well, then, let me talk to you.” 

“What can you say?” he returned harshly. “Talking 
can’t make black white.” 


THE LAKE 291 

“No, but it can show you what’s white, when you 
think it’s black.” 

“Maybe,” he sulked. 

She ran impetuously to him, and put her hand on 
his. With a swift relaxing of his resolves, he caught 
her in his arms, holding her as if in passionate defiance 
of death. She struggled free. “No, I’m not going to 
argue with you like that,” she panted; “not with my 
body, not with your love for me. I want you to see 
with your mind. I want you to see-” 

He stepped away from her. They went up to the 
porch together, and sat down on the settle under the 
window. Carraline could not wait to speak. “It doesn’t 
matter who your father was, Bert,” she said. 

He stared at her in amaze. “Don’t you honestly 
care?” he asked. His face lost something of its tensity. 

“No. What difference does it make to me? You are 
you” 

“But-” he began, and stopped. 

“What?” 

“But if you married me, you’d be marrying a—a-” 

“I’d be marrying you.” 

“Wouldn’t you be ashamed? Wouldn’t you feel de¬ 
graded?” 

“Why should I?” she replied. 

“Your children—our children-” He looked away. 

“There’d be a stain.” 

“They should never know.” 

“But it would be there.” 

“Where?” she asked him, with sudden sharpness. 

‘Why, in them,” he answered confusedly. 

“How?” 

“The same as it’s in me.” 



292 THE LAKE 

“How is it in you?” The girl’s voice did not lose its 
directness. 

“Why, why-” He stared at her in impatience. 

“Where is it in you?” 

“Here.” He put his hand to his breast. 

“If it's there, you’d better have it cut out,” she said. 

He rose, raging. “You can make fun of me!” 

Tears were running down her face. “Oh, Bert!” 

He stood before her. “It’s in my soul,” he said 
tragically. 

“Soul!” She caught his hand. “My darling, it 
couldn’t touch you. It couldn’t come near you. What 
you are, what you love me with—that’s your soul, that’s 
you. The disgrace—if you want to call it so—it couldn’t 
ever touch you.” 

He stood irresolute. Libbie Hunt had said something 
like that. “I don’t see-” he stammered. 

Carraline was going on. “Can’t you see that what 
you really are is up above and out of things like this? 
It’s like our love—that’s outside of it, and outside of 
everything else that’s wrong.” 

“Yes,” he conceded, in a dazed way. 

“It’s how you look at things,” she continued. “I’ve 
always said, you know, that relations are near or far 
off from you, according to how you care. People that 
you love, and that love you and understand you, they’re 
your relations. It doesn’t make any difference about 
being born. I saw that when I was only a little girl, 
when mother told me and explained to me what the 
Bible means when it say, The flesh profiteth nothing.’ ” 

Bert was listening now, reluctantly, but intently. “I 
never thought about it,” he said. “You told me, but I 
wouldn’t pay any attention.” 


THE LAKE 


293 


“Think about it now,” she begged. “You see, it’s 
how you look at things. If you’d been kidnapped when 
you were a baby, and now you’d found out that your 
folks were different from what you supposed, would you 
feel—the way you think you’re feeling now?” 

“Probably not.” Hubert moved uncomfortably, but 
met her gaze as honestly as he could. 

“You’d see that you are you, just the same, wouldn’t 
you?” 

“I guess so.” 

“And then there’s the justice of it.” The girl divined 
that she was arguing a case which might involve the 
issues of life and death. “Is it right that a person 
should suffer for what someone else has done?” 

“No, not exactly, but-” 

“If John Jones, over in the next county, does some¬ 
thing wrong—steals, we’ll say—do you feel as if you’ve 
got to suffer all your life for it?” 

“Well, but that-” he began. 

“Do you?’” she persisted. 

“No, of course not.” 

“Well, if a man a little nearer—say Martin Hen¬ 
dricks over here—did something wicked, would you think 
you had to make yourself miserable over it—go off an 
take your own life, or something?” The voice of the 
girl shook, and the hand on the back of the old settle 
was trembling. 

“No, of course not.” The young man’s face was less 
hard and more thoughtful. 

“And if a man a little nearer yet—Alec McLean, for 
instance—does something wrong, have you got to suffer 
for it, and feel you’re disgraced and an outcast, and that 
everything is ruined for ever?” 


294 


THE LAKE 


He saw her logic. He swallowed hard. “N-no, I don’t 
suppose it is very sensible,” he said in a tone of sur¬ 
prise at his own admission. There w T as a pause. “But 
there’s something else,” he began; “if they’re your own 
folks, it seems more awful.” 

“I don’t see why,” interpolated Carraline. 

“Well, maybe it isn’t. But, anyway, it makes you 
feel scared.” He gulped. “Scared of women. Is there 
one of ’em that you could trust? If—if I married you 
—or any other woman—wouldn’t I feel that you—that 
she-” 

“Bert!” The girl reached for his hand, and held it to 
her cheek. “You know that isn’t true. You know it 
isn’t worth considering.” 

He did not withdraw his hand. The lines of his face 
were softening. But he must uncover all his heart. 
“How can I like—love—Alec and my mother any more?” 
he said brokenly. “I thought they were so—good.” 

“They are, too; you know they are,” said the girl in 
a low voice. It had not at first been easy for her to 
make this concession herself. “They’ve done wrong, ter¬ 
ribly wrong, and I’m sure they know it. But who are 
you, to go judging them? Are you God?” 

He looked blank. “Hardly,” he muttered. 

“You act as if you thought you were. Here you stay, 
and make them come bowing down on their knees to 
you, as if you were some idol or god or some such thing. 
You act as if you were perfect yourself, as if you had 
a right to set yourself up and be a judge for them. Did 
God ever say that you were to take His place, and 
decide how wrong they were, and how they ought to be 
punished?” 


THE LAKE 295 

Bert’s jaw dropped. “I should say not,” he answered 
hurriedly. 

“How do you know you’re so awfully much better 
than they are—I mean, as a flesh man?” 

The mind of the boy was whirling. He thought that 
he had been thinking, during these last hard days; but 
now he was thinking as he had never done before. He 
began to see himself as small and arrogant and self- 
righteous and unforgiving. 

Carraline came and stood beside him. “There’s more 
I want to say.” There was a shy determination in her 
voice. “About God. Isn’t God the real Father of every¬ 
body? Where do we all come from? From fathers and 
mothers in the flesh, in a way, of course. But that’s 
not the real thing. There’s a mind in us—a soul, spirit 
—call it what you want to—it’s not in the flesh. Who 
can touch it? Where does it come from? From God— 
that’s the only place that soul or spirit could start. God 
is the Father of all that’s real in us—all that’s mind, 
that’s spirit, that’s us, our own selves. It doesn’t mat¬ 
ter how we’re born. I know that’s true. I know that’s 
why Jesus said, ‘Call no man your father upon the 
earth; for one is your Father, which is in heaven.’ ” 

Bert stood silent, listening. He had never thought 
much about religious things. His mind was virgin to 
the touch of truth. He threw off his doubts, his self- 
pity, his agony and torment. He saw a new heaven and 
a new earth, and rested in a new sense of life and love. 
There came to him the vision which comes to some of 
us once or twice in a lifetime, to others not at all. He 
saw himself as the offspring of an Infinite Spirit, which 
gives infinite life to all, and withholds from none. He 


296 


THE LAKE 


saw himself the child of eternal beauty and compassion, 
sharing the wonder of the goodness of God, the Father 
to all mankind. It was a moment of supreme exalta¬ 
tion, a moment never to be forgotten, the memory of 
which was henceforth to transfigure what he should 
know of life. 

He turned to the girl beside him. She came sobbing 
to his arms. He held her now not with depair and pas¬ 
sion, but with tenderness and hope. “Bert, Bert,” she 
was saying, against his heart, “are you going to give me 
up for what somebody else did, long ago, for a mistake 
—for nothing?” 

“No, no!” He spoke in wonderment at himself. “I 
can’t see what I was thinking of. I can’t see why I 
didn’t understand before.” 

******* 

Half an hour later, Hubert pulled the boat out of the 
bushes, where it had been dashed by the storm, and 
rowed Carraline across the submerged lane and road to 
the solid highway. “It looks pretty bad,” she said. 
They were glad to speak of mundane things, after their 
exalted hour. “It doesn’t seem as if the storm could do 
all that. And, oh, Bert, Willard’s grave is under water!” 

Hubert did not answer. In a dim way, he felt that 
something of the past had been wiped out by the stealing 
flood. 

He was going home with Carraline. After a while he 
would seek out his family, but not now. As the two 
walked along over the familiar road, which they had 
trodden together from their earliest remembrance, they 
did not find much to say. At last Bert, like a hermit 
emerging from his cave, began to think of the personages 


THE LAKE 297 

of their little world. “How’s the old man?” he asked. 
“I haven’t thought about him for two or three days.” 

“He doesn’t seem very well,” said the girl sympa¬ 
thetically. “He’s sat in his chair for two days, all kind 
of sunk down. He doesn’t seem to care what’s going 
on. We’re worried about him.” 

When they reached the house, Libbie came to meet 
them, her plain and faded face lovely in its kindness. 
“I’m so glad,” she said, and kissed her daughter on the 
cheek. She met the eyes of Bert with understanding. 

The old man had been sitting bowed in his chair be¬ 
side the window. He rose now, weak and tottering. 
Recognition and triumph glowed through his obscured 
intelligence. “It’s Bert, ain’t it?” he said. “Boy, I 
remember now. I wanted to tell you. I cut it through— 
I cut through the place between the lakes.” 

“You what?” cried Hubert in consternation. 

“I dug through the place—you know—where the lakes 
come together. They’re all one now. The water’s rush¬ 
ing there like a mill race, only bigger. It’s fine.” 

With a look at the comprehending faces of the women, 
Bert turned to the telephone. Carraline ran to steady 
and soothe the excited old man. 

Bert called Alec McLean on the telephone. It seemed 
good, in spite of the tension of the moment, to be speak¬ 
ing in a natural way. “Alec, this is Bert,” he said. 
“I’m at Mrs. Hunt’s. Yes. Mr. Gleason has cut through 
the neck of land between the lakes. That’s why the 
water’s rising. Yes, yes. He says he dug it through 
-—I don’t know how or when. Will you meet me at the log 
house with the car? We’ll have to see if anything can 
be done. All right. I’m starting.” 

With a word to Carraline, “I’ll be back as soon as 


298 


THE LAKE 


I can,” he ran out of the house, hurrying to the point 
where he was to meet Alec. If he had not been so 
taken up with his own misery, he reflected, he would 
long ago have made out this explanation of the height 
of the water. He remembered how the old man had 
dwelt upon the possibility of opening a channel between 
the lakes, and his confusion as to what would follow. 

Alec was at the log house before him. They greeted 
each other as if nothing had changed, in the matter-of- 
fact manner of men. “I guess the farm’s gone, Alec,” 
said Hubert as the car started. 

“We’ll see how bad things are,” Alec returned. He 
sped the car over the rough little-used road. When they 
reached the edge of the woods, the men got out and 
walked through the wet trees and bushes, dull beneath 
low clouds. Before they came to the place which they 
were seeking, they heard the angry rushing and swirling 
of the water. Stepping out to the open space, they saw 
where the havoc had been wrought. The channel which 
the old man had cut with his long secret toil had been 
widened by the force of the water and the devastation 
of the storm. A sloping wall of water ran from lake to 
lake. Small trees lay uprooted in the churning flood, 
and muddied underbrush strained at its roots. The 
larger trees still stood, with water flowing deep around 
their boles. The two men were for the moment unnerved 
by the hopelessness of damming this sliding torrent. 

Alec put his arm across the shoulders of his son. He 
knew that it would not be shaken off. “You’re right, 
Bert,” he said grimly. “I guess the most of the farm’s 
gone. We can’t get stuff enough in here in time to stop 
it before the best fields are overflowed and the water’s 
all around the house.” 


THE LAKE 


299 


Hubert caught his breath. His farm! His precious 
farm, and the house into which he was sometime to 
bring his wife! It seemed at first that he could not bear 
the loss. But after a little he knew that he could. “I 
can stand it, Alec,” he said. He felt as if he himself 
had been called back from death, and that he had learned 
more than he could ever lose, of life and love. 

“We’ll get what help we can,” said McLean; “cut 
down trees and haul stone and dirt. But I don’t know 
how much good it’ll do. Shall we go back now? Do 
you want to see your mother?” 

“Yes, I want to,” the boy replied. “Carraline—she’s 
helped me a good deal. I think I see things different 
now.” As they were walking back through the woods, 
Hubert said, “Willard Faraday’s grave is under water.” 
Alec started. “You know what you told me about my 
—about Willard,” the boy went on. “I shan’t ever tell 
that, even to Carraline.” Alec nodded gratefully. “But 
I guess you’d better tell my mother.” 

“I always thought it was better not to,” answered the 
man. “It might be an awful worry to her. That’s why 
I’ve never let her know.” 

“I don’t believe it would worry her half as much as 
wondering,” Hubert replied. He seemed to discern with 
painful clearness the terrors which had dwelt in his 
mother’s mind. 

“Maybe you’re right,” said Alec. 

It was not until they were driving past the log house 
that they spoke again. “You know, if the farm’s gone, 
you can start over again, somewhere else,” the older 
man remarked. “There’s money enough, and I’d like 
to do that for you, lad. I’d rather than to have you 
get it from—Willard.” 


300 THE LAKE 

“And I’d rather have it from you now,” said the boy 
in a low voice. 

At the door of his house, Alec stopped, with his hand 
on the knob. “You’ll be easy on your mother, won’t 
you, Bert?” he said. “She’s had it pretty hard.” 

“I know.” Hubert’s throat was aching, and his eyes 
were full of tears. He could not tell his father what 
he had learned of the Fatherhood of God, and of his 
own untouched individuality. “Alec, I’ve been a fool, 
but I’ve learned something. I see now that everybody’s 
got his own life to answer for, and that I have all I can 
do to look after mine. And we’ve all got to go on living.” 

Averil McLean, huddled on a sofa in the living-room, 
rose to her feet with incredulous joy as the two men 
came in. 


I 


Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: •. .. 



APR 


1996 


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